


Fall Here

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Developing Relationship, Fear of Falling, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hastur is himself, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Michael is a Bad Angel, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Relationship boundaries, Sacrifice, Shame, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-26 22:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19777468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: A single kiss can change everything but six thousand years of repression and shame cannot be overcome overnight. As Aziraphale and Crowley begin to navigate the unknown territory of their new relationship, the agents of Heaven and Hell draw ever closer threatening to tear angel and demon apart forever.





	1. The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I wrote any fic, even longer since I posted any, but this ship has my heart like no other. POV will shift throughout the story but this chapter belongs to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was standing in the middle of his bookshop, having just flipped the sign on the door to closed. There had been a grand total of three customers, the sum of the day’s takings being a precise and measly seven pounds and fifty pence. Outside the rain was sheeting down as it had been all day, ensuring those with the sense to make best use of their free will were already safely inside. With the door locked and the smell of hundreds of books filling his lungs, Aziraphale could honestly say that he was really rather content. He had a nice brie in the fridge and an apricot chutney that would go very nicely with crackers for his supper. Yes, he had every reason to be perfectly satisfied.

Yet, he could not help checking the answering machine. No messages. Of course not, the phone had not rung so it made perfect sense for there to be no messages. Still though, Aziraphale found himself staring at the light that meant the machine was on. After a minute, he lifted the phone receiver and held it to his ear. The dial tone was loud and strident. Everything working. Of course it was, nothing to worry about.

He was good at being alone. As the only angel permanently stationed on Earth, a solitary existence was all he had ever known. He had never seriously considered the possibility of any other kind of life, or let himself dwell too much on any competing impulse or desire. After diverting the Apocalypse, he had gone back to the simple life he had known for decades before all the nasty business with the horsemen and the antichrist had been set in motion. His bookshop, his network of collectors, the occasional miracle here and there when he felt the world around him growing a little too dark. No more orders, of course. No more reports to send or checking in with head office. Back to normal with a little twist then, a twist Aziraphale had been spending the last six months telling himself was for the best.

Crowley had gone back to his life too, or some version of it, only Aziraphale was under the impression that his friend had not returned to normality with anything like the same sense of relief. Despite there being no reason for them to stay away from each other, Aziraphale had seen very little of him and when he had, their interactions had been rather strange.

Three months ago, for example, Crowley had turned up at the bookshop unannounced, in itself not a particularly noteworthy or unexpected occurrence. Aziraphale, delighted, had been about to ask the reason for the visit when Crowley had held out a book. It was a beautiful object, in wonderful condition despite its age.

‘My goodness,’ Aziraphale had declared, hardly daring to touch it, ‘It can’t be…’

Crowley, whose lack of deference to books had been a source of much consternation for Aziraphale over the years, tipped it into his hands.

‘Have it authenticated,’ he said, his tone implying that he did not care for the legitimacy of his gift to be questioned.

‘But…’ stammered Aziraphale, ‘This is _Cardenio_! It’s been lost for centuries. People have been searching for it, _I’ve_ been searching for it. However did you…?’

Crowley had merely shrugged.

‘No, really, I don’t understand how you could just waltz in here holding one of the most valuable manuscripts in the world.’

‘I don’t waltz,’ had been Crowley’s conversation ending comment. He had departed shortly afterwards, much to Aziraphale’s disappointment. He hadn’t even stayed for tea.

Aziraphale had spent the next fortnight lost in blissful contemplation of his newly acquired Shakespeare play, reading and re-reading it, coping the text precisely into a notebook so he could read it without having to don white cotton gloves, and then going through his own copy and highlighting his favourite lines just for the pure pleasure of it. He barely noticed the passage of time but was happy to be interrupted by a phone call. 

‘Aziraphale?’

‘Crowley! Oh, I am glad to hear from you. I really must thank you again for the-’

‘I can’t do this anymore.’

There had been something entirely unfamiliar about Crowley’s voice, so much so that Aziraphale had been sufficiently alarmed to immediately begin interrogating his friend for proof that it really was him.

‘For Satan’s sake, Angel, it’s me,’ Crowley had snapped having endured such questions as – how do I like my tea? what’s your favourite flavour of ice cream? what was the last meal we shared together? - all but one of the questions linked by the theme of food though Aziraphale had not realised this at the time.

‘Well, thank goodness.’

There was a sound which could have been a hiss, a warning that Crowley’s patience was wearing thin.

‘Is something the matter? Are you in trouble?’

There had been a silence which had stretched on long enough for butterflies to multiply several times inside Aziraphale’s stomach. Finally, Crowley had sighed.

‘No trouble, no…I’m just bored, aren’t you?’

Aziraphale had considered the question carefully.

‘You know, I really don’t think I am. It’s quite nice for everything just to go back to normal.’

Crowley laughed, a singularly humourless sound.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I don’t know why I keep…’

He trailed off.

‘Are you quite sure you’re alright?’

‘Oh yes. Never better. I’ll see you around.’

Before Aziraphale could ask when exactly, the line had gone dead. It only occurred to him several hours later that he should have invited Crowley round for dinner. For days, the desire to extend an invitation oscillated back and forth with the far more sensible urge to let things be. Crowley would come to him if he needed something, he always did. There did not seem any pressing need to upset the balance of things.

The next few conversations, all over the phone, had been stiff and evasive. And still Crowley did not come to see him. Something was bothering him, that much was certain, but Aziraphale did not seem able to get him to divulge what it might be. During their last call, Aziraphale had come perilously close to asking if it might be alright if he came to visit. He had never been to Crowley’s home before and, though he had devoted quite extensive time and energy to imagining what it might be like, he could never picture himself actually going there. There had been instances when Crowley had made it very clear that he would not mind in the slightest if Aziraphale dropped by. Then there was that very memorable conversation while the dust of diverting the End Times was still settling around them when, upon reluctantly reminding Aziraphale that he was currently homeless, Crowley had very casually suggested that he could come and stay with him. Even now, months later, Aziraphale could not revisit this memory without a terrible heat flooding him. The heat had a name, though he mostly tried not to think of it.

And now it was three weeks, four days, two hours and twenty minutes since Aziraphale had last heard Crowley’s voice on his answer phone. The message had been infuriatingly brief:

‘Going to be out of contact for a while. Nothing to worry about.’

Aziraphale had tried calling back. He had left messages which had taken on an increasingly panicked tone. He had attempted not to worry but he rarely succeeded for longer than a few hours. In a flagrant abuse of the rules which he still considered himself to be bound by, he had sent a dove in the direction of Crowley’s residence and waited impatiently for its return only to be informed that there was no sign of life. It seemed Crowley really had just taken off with no explanation.

The most infuriating part about it was that Aziraphale could not explain to himself why this occasion should be any different from any of the countless other times when they had not been aware of each other’s location. Whole centuries had passed without their paths crossing and Aziraphale did not remember ever feeling this agitated by Crowley’s absence. He had simply got used to relying on Crowley, that was the problem. He needed other friends. Perhaps that was why Crowley had gone away. Perhaps he was doing what Aziraphale ought to be doing, figuring out what life was going to look like without a Heaven or a Hell to report to. Or maybe, and this thought worried Aziraphale like blunt teeth to the gut, maybe Crowley had left to escape the restrictive trappings of their friendship. Aziraphale was well aware that he had asked too much of his friend in the past, leaned upon him too heavily, and been unable to relax his righteous sense of morality even when he strongly suspected that Crowley’s plan and methods were the better course. Anyone would tire of being treated as inferior, surely. And, though it still pained Aziraphale to fully admit, Crowley was and always would be a demon. He was not sure how long demonic urges could be held completely in check. Even without dark masters to serve, Crowley might have simply decided that he could no longer deny who he truly was.

The more Aziraphale thought about it, the more it made sense. Crowley would not want him to know he was doing something evil, firstly because he had no need of angelic judgement, and secondly because Aziraphale might consider it imperative to stop him. This prompted further thought as Aziraphale posited scenario after scenario and tried to decide what he would do and how much evil he might reasonably be able to allow to take place. Crowley had never seemed keen or even interested in causing serious harm. Aziraphale had never known him murder anyone with the exception of a fellow demon who frankly deserved his fate and when it came to the possibility of harming children he became positively squeamish, so it was very unlikely that he had gone off with the intention of killing anyone. He had also worked very hard to avoid war so instigating another one could reasonably be considered out of the question. The kind of elaborate and slow release evil that Crowley prided himself in – the design of the M25, the proliferance of online gambling sites, the relaxation of planning laws regarding home improvements and extensions – Aziraphale considered to be the kind of thing that he would be willing to turn a blind eye. It would have been nice to know what Crowley was doing though, or at least where, just so he could stop checking the phone was still working and looking up hopefully whenever someone was foolish enough to ignore the dusty windowsills and grimy glass and actually enter the bookshop.

The date arrived that marked one month since last contact. A month was the self-imposed deadline Aziraphale had set himself, if a month passed and he still did not know where Crowley was he would Do Something. The problem was, he had absolutely no idea what. This dilemma was not helped by knowing that if the roles were reversed Crowley would likely have had very little difficulty tracking him down. The irony did not escape him. Plagued by indecision, Aziraphale forgot to open the bookshop which came as no surprise to the locals but caused one particular bibliophile considerable disquiet. Having worked his way down the street, picking up a number of rare and prized volumes along the way, he was not prepared to meet a locked door three days in a row. His increasingly angry knocking and requests for opening hours shouted through the letterbox fell on deaf ears. Nothing could distract Aziraphale from the buzz of his thoughts. Nothing but the telephone which, no matter how many times he wished it, adamantly refused to ring.

Finally, having driven himself into something of a frenzy imagining Crowley cornered by a squadron of demons, Aziraphale donned his coat, pocketed his watch and grabbed the nearest book which happened to be the volume Crowley had mysteriously procured for him. He would head to Mayfair and from there, if no clues presented themselves, he would systematically search every place he had ever met up with, bumped into or known Crowley to frequent. It was not what anyone would call a good plan but Aziraphale had never considered himself an angel of action. His strengths were rather more sedentary in nature but enough was enough, he could not simply wait by the phone any more.

He had just reached the front door when someone appeared in the glass. Assuming it was a customer, Aziraphale prepared to send them on their way but was startled by the locked door opening of its own accord. Crowley was standing on the threshold of the shop, his familiar silhouette momentarily robbing Aziraphale of the power of speech. Everything was the same, from his glasses down to his black boots, and yet there was something menacing about his energy. Aziraphale found himself wanting to look away before they had even spoken a word to each other. The easiest way of channelling this unease was to turn it into indignation.

‘Crowley! Where on Earth have you been? Really, it’s not on. It’s most unfair to give absolutely no indication of where you might be or how long you might be gone. Anything could have happened to you and I…’

Crowley stepped forwards. Aziraphale, instinctively it seemed, stepped back. The door swung shut and suddenly they were alone. The energy which was making Aziraphale so apprehensive was amplified, filling the entire shop. He tried to speak but the sight of Crowley’s unsmiling face made the words shrivel in his throat.

‘Crowley?’

Crowley half shook his head. There was a brief flash of teeth as if he had considered speaking but thought better of it, and then he moved forwards again. In three strides he had Aziraphale backed up against the shelves. Frozen half in terror, half in something else entirely, Aziraphale could only watch as Crowley took hold of his lapels, crushing the rather expensive fabric, his shocked reflection growing larger in the dark lenses of Crowley’s glasses.

‘Tell me to stop.’

Aziraphale knew what was about to happen a millisecond before it did but any protest was burned away by the heat that followed as Crowley’s lips pressed against his own. A kiss, _the_ kiss. A part of Aziraphale was consciously aware of the astonishing truth while the rest of him melted against Crowley’s relentless heat. He was being kissed and Crowley was doing the kissing and his best coat was getting wrinkled and he wanted things to go back to the way they were and he never, ever, ever wanted this to stop. But stop it did, approximately five infinite seconds after it had started. Crowley was breathing hard, his face once more fixed in an expression of intense displeasure. He had not let Aziraphale go.

Emotions were flooding in too fast for Aziraphale to process. He could feel his face glowing red. He felt weak and breathless, mortified and elated in ways that made no sense to him just yet. One of them was going to have to speak but Aziraphale did not have the faintest idea what he might want to say. Finally, Crowley seemed to rouse himself and his hands released their grip.

‘Sorry about your coat.’

‘Quite alright,’ murmured Aziraphale without looking down. He did not think he would ever be able to wear it again anyway.

Crowley was raising a hand to his mouth but brought it down again abruptly. Aziraphale’s own lips felt like they were burning. Were they feeling the same thing or did a demon feel an angel’s touch differently? The question alone sent a wave of shame over him. He realised too late that Crowley was watching him. He tried to neutralise his expression but he was quite sure his self-disgust had been all too visible.

‘So,’ said Crowley, ‘I’ve got my answer.’

Aziraphale felt behind him for the spines of his precious books, his ever reliable escapes. Something about being able to touch them gave him a little strength.

‘What exactly was the question?’

There was a beat where Crowley simply stared at him in disbelief.

‘Really? Even now?’

He began muttering under his breath, half turning away, touching his glasses but not removing them. Aziraphale wanted to ask what he was saying but found himself unable to phrase the question. He was afraid in the same way he had been when faced with the antichrist, unable to see past a moment that was threatening to blow everything apart. He wanted time to stop. He wanted to stop feeling so much. He wanted Crowley to look at him and he was crushingly scared of what he might see if he did.

‘Crowley?’

He barely managed to croak out his name. With a great deal of very visible effort, Crowley mastered whatever was churning through him and turned back to face him. The heat that had so overwhelmed him during the kiss rose up in Aziraphale once more, a dangerous current that made him feel unsteady, unsafe.

‘There’s no need to look so terrified,’ Crowley said, darkly, ‘I won’t touch you again.’

‘I’m not…’

Aziraphale bit his lip to stop the words from coming out. He did not want to admit that he was frightened but he did not want to lie either. He knew from the look on Crowley’s face that he was doing everything wrong but what had he expected? It wasn’t as if he’d been giving any warning. 

‘I’m going to get a drink,’ Crowley announced abruptly the moment Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to the floor.

The room felt empty without him, the presence of the books doing nothing to calm Aziraphale’s shattered nerves. After several minutes in which he succeeded only in tangling his thoughts into tighter knots, he decided there was no real option but to join him.

Crowley was leaning back, the chair beneath him balanced precariously on two legs. He had not bothered to find a glass, instead drinking deeply from the bottle. Aziraphale could not bring himself to do the same, however sore the temptation, and lifted down a glass. The first sip of wine was so welcome he could have blessed the saint who had tended the vineyard straight into heaven. Though Crowley’s drinking had a savage, desperate edge to it, and Aziraphale could not stop his hands from shaking, after a while it began to feel almost normal between them.

‘I’m afraid I don’t really understand what just happened.’

Crowley took another long swig from his bottle.

‘Don’t you?’

‘No. I…I would like an explanation.’

He sounded almost like himself, Aziraphale was faintly proud of himself for that. At least until the legs of Crowley’s chair came thudding to the floor. It seemed to take him a very long time to remove his glasses. When their eyes met, Aziraphale was forced to look away.

‘An explanation. Fine. No point holding anything back now.’

Crowley drank again and Aziraphale sensed that this was his only moment to leave. If he simply stood up and walked away, Crowley would not follow him. He shifted ever so slightly but the weight of Crowley’s stare held him in place, he was not going anywhere.

‘I need you to know that I have tried not to want this, I really have tried for a very long time. I’ve tried to deny it, tried to get over it, tried to punish myself for feeling it. Demons aren’t supposed to fall in love. We’re not supposed to feel like this. But nothing worked so I let myself feel it, all of it, and it just kept getting worse or stronger or however you want to describe the all-consuming torture of loving someone who can't love you back.’

There was a pause in which Crowley drank again. Aziraphale did not move, blink or breathe. 

‘I've wanted to tell you so many times. I tried to show you. And I understood why you couldn’t let yourself see what I was offering you. I have some idea what the angels would have done to you. I have considered in precise graphic detail what my lot would have done to me. I’d have been begging for holy water by the end, if there ever was an end. I was scared too but I would have risked everything for you. I did. I was there whenever you needed me, I chose you over and over again. And I thought, if friendship is all I can have then I’ll make it work because how could I bear it if you were taken from me? And then the end came, only it didn’t.

‘We saved the world and we saved each other, and we got ourselves cast out of Heaven and Hell in the process. No one giving us orders, no one expecting reports, no one to tell us what we could and could not do. We were a team of two. We could choose. I thought, this is it, this is when he’ll finally give us a chance. But you didn’t. You wanted everything to go back the way it was, back to your dusty bookshop, back to only letting me into your life for tiny windows of time, back to pretending that’s enough. I tried to be okay with it, to give you more time, but you’ve had over six thousand years, Aziraphale. I just can’t wait any more.

‘I didn’t intend to come here and kiss you. I shouldn’t have done that. I just…I wanted to know whether…if there was a way you could look past all this…and now I know you can’t.’

Crowley indicated himself and for the first time in his speech his voice began to break. The sound twisted itself around Aziraphale’s heart and lodged there. Crowley took another drink, draining the bottle. Aziraphale was still trying to process what he had just heard but panic made him blurt out his first thought. 

‘Did you just say that you’re in love with me?’

Crowley summoned himself another bottle of wine.

‘That’s the crux of the issue, yes.’

It was impossible and it was everything Aziraphale had ever wanted, wrapped up in one unholy temptation that he could never allow himself to give in to. He loved Crowley, of course he did, loved him in a couldn’t-live-without-him, would-tear-down-heaven-to-protect-him, never-wanted-to-sit-beside-anyone-else-at-the-Ritz kind of way. Like friends. Like very good friends who might one day spend every waking moment together and never keep another secret from each other and maybe hold hands occasionally if no one was looking. Was there a word for that?

‘If you could look a little less like I’ve just poisoned you, that would be grand.’

Crowley was looking exceedingly snake like, no trace of white in his eyes at all. Aziraphale reached out and began to twist his wine glass round on its coaster. If he explained his reluctance, Crowley would never understand. He had been rebelling against Hell for millenia, but Heaven still weighed heavily on Aziraphale. No matter how much he might want things to be different, or how it might feel to give in to what he knew was wrong, the fear of judgement was too real, too strong. 

‘I…this is rather a lot to take in, Crowley. Be patient with me.’ 

This at least provoked a dry smile.

‘When am I not?’

There was a long silence. Aziraphale wanted to seize the bottle from Crowley and down the whole thing himself but if he started drinking again he was not sure how he would ever stop.

‘Okay,’ Crowley said at last, ‘This has gone terribly so I’m going to go.’

‘But…when will you be back?’

‘Oh, I think a millennia or two will put enough distance between me and this moment. I’ll look you up.’

He was standing up and Aziraphale was suddenly terrified. If Crowley wanted to disappear, he could do so with ease. Aziraphale might never find him again.

‘I don’t want you to leave.’

Crowley donned his glasses in one smooth movement which only partially concealed his pained expression.

‘I’m serious,’ said Aziraphale, standing too, ‘I want you to stay.’

Crowley started shaking his head and then stopped, lifting his chin to stare over defiantly.

‘Tell me something. What did you feel when I kissed you? Fear? Disgust? Revulsion? Do you have any idea or any interest at all in what I felt? Do you have any comprehension of how it might feel to know the person you have loved for entire lifetimes can’t stand being that close to you? I know what I am. I can never, ever forget. And neither, it seems, can you.’

Something had been building inside Aziraphale while Crowley was speaking, with each and every word it had grown stronger and more insistent, so that the very moment Crowley finished his bitter speech, Aziraphale said in a louder and more resounding tone than he had been expecting, ‘That’s not true!’

In another circumstance, he might have prized the look of startled surprise on Crowley’s face.

‘It doesn’t matter to me that you’re a demon. Okay, it mattered a great deal at the beginning when I didn’t really know you and I was still getting used to things, and maybe it continued to matter for a very long time, and perhaps it matters a little still…’

He was digging himself into a hole. Abandoning this doomed train of thought, Aziraphale attempted to get back on track.

‘I felt a lot of things when you kissed me, not least extremely surprised and yes, afraid, but not because I am disgusted by you but because…because it was…rather wonderful.’ 

‘What?’

Crowley looked quite lost, his voice as soft as Aziraphale had ever heard it. Flushed with his success and more than a little lightheaded from his own daring, he plunged on recklessly.

‘I’m not as brave as you, Crowley. Our friendship means everything to me and I don’t know what I’d do without you. If there have been times I’ve felt confused about the way you make me feel, it’s only because of who I have been told I have to be, not because I thought you weren’t good enough. There’s never been anyone else and there never will be. It’s always been you.’

Crowley opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. Aziraphale was glad of the silence, it gave him the chance to say the thing that he had really meant to say. The absolutely most important thing. He did not need to confess that he was only just admitting this to himself, though he would not have been at all surprised if Crowley already knew. Perhaps deep down Aziraphale had known for a long time too, since a bomb falling on a church and two miracles, perhaps even before then. It felt like a truth that had always been there, a second heartbeat beside his own. He cleared his throat and attempted to put something of this feeling into words.

‘I don’t know whether I’m capable of giving you everything you want but I think it’s important that you know that I do…I really…’

There was no one else in the room and yet Aziraphale felt the judgement of a thousand angels bearing down on him. He would never be forgiven for this. There would be no explaining it away. No going back.

‘You don’t have to say it.’

Crowley’s understanding, coloured as it was by that deep sadness he always carried with him, pierced Aziraphale’s chest. Dear, patient, irresistible Crowley, former angel of Heaven, knew exactly how terrified Aziraphale was of suffering the same fate. He wanted so desperately to drown out the voice inside him which told him he was doing A Bad Thing. He could do it by telling Crowley all the brilliant and wonderful things that he saw in him; he could tell him that his light, the light Crowley believed he no longer possessed, had been dazzling him for millennia; he could start by saying the words that were currently stuck in his throat.

‘I…I….’ 

He blinked up at the ceiling not wanting to see Crowley’s expression as he struggled. A rising tide of humiliation was making things even worse. Very soon he was not going to be able to keep it together and then what would Crowley think of him? Aziraphale closed his eyes without meaning to so was not aware of Crowley moving closer to him. His thoughts were cascading panic now but they all stopped when he felt a hand take his. It was not like the kiss. Crowley’s touch was gentle this time. Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly shut and focused on the glowing warmth that was filling him, so much more bearable than the fierce, overwhelming heat.

When he opened his eyes, he was relieved to see Crowley was looking down, his focus on where their hands were joined. Aziraphale was still afraid but the feeling that he was blaspheming in the very worst way was a little less crushing.

‘I like that,’ he managed to say.

Crowley’s eyebrows rose slightly but he did not look up. Aziraphale began to fret, he clearly had not said or done enough yet to avert potential catastrophe.

‘I like you. Very much.’

Crowley released a long slow breath. His fingers began to slip away but Aziraphale made a wild grab to maintain the connection.

‘Please, Crowley. Please don’t leave.’

Aziraphale was seconds away from getting down on his knees and begging but suddenly he realised that there was something else he could do, something that might be considered a step in the right direction.

‘Don’t leave,’ he said again, ‘Stay here. With me. I’ve got plenty of room for your things upstairs, I could do with a clear out anyway, and I never really go up there much so it could all be yours. Or I suppose we could find somewhere else to live though I wouldn’t want to give up the bookshop entirely. And I do rather like living here so if there was some way of convincing you then I’m sure I could make the necessary adjustments.’

He was holding onto Crowley’s hand very tightly now, tight enough to hurt though Crowley made no attempt to extricate himself. Tiny but powerful fireworks were going off inside Aziraphale’s stomach. For a few wild moments he was seized by a kind of euphoric glee as he took in what he was doing. He was actually holding Crowley’s hand and he had just asked him to move in with him. It wasn’t like him at all and yet it felt very much like the kind of thing he should have done a thousand years ago. 

‘Are you asking me to live here?’ Crowley asked, with the slow deliberation of someone who wanted to make absolutely sure they were not making a disastrous assumption, ‘With you?’

‘Only if you want to,’ Aziraphale said hastily. 

Crowley made a pained sound, his head dropping so that their foreheads almost touched. The gap between them was paper thin and yet Aziraphale found himself unable to close it.

‘Ask me again.’

Confused, Aziraphale did as he was told.

‘Will you move in with me?’

Crowley was so tense that if Aziraphale did not know any better he might have thought he was trying not to cry.

‘Again.’

Crowley was lacing his fingers through Aziraphale’s, making it very difficult of him to concentrate.

‘Anthony J Crowley, would you please do me the honour of moving in with me?’

Aziraphale had to rephrase the question three more times until he was practically pleading. If Crowley said no now his heart was going to shatter into a million pieces and not even eternity would be long enough to fix it.

But Crowley did not say no.

And for a long time after the yes neither one of them was able to say anything at all.


	2. Six Week Feeling

Every day there was a different reason for Aziraphale to nip out for a short while. His phrase. Crowley had no problem with this but still found himself compelled to question why, when Aziraphale could miracle food for the fridge and flowers for the vase on the kitchen table and whatever else he might want, he still felt the need to walk down the street exchanging money for goods and smiling at strangers.

‘It’s important to keep up appearances,’ Aziraphale had answered, straightening his jacket and heading out with a shopping basket over his arm. An actual wicker basket. What appearance was Aziraphale hoping to convey exactly?

Left alone in the bookshop which felt familiar and safe but not quite home, Crowley approached the nearest plant and began the inspection. Despite the limited opportunities he had for threatening them, they were doing well in their new location, perhaps because when Aziraphale was out Crowley had been more ferocious and creative with his threats than ever. This was not something he had done in Aziraphale’s presence. One step at a time.

If Crowley was completely honest with himself, his botanical diatribes were not solely motivated by the desire to have the most luxuriant and best behaved plants in London, they also served to release some of the pent up frustration that living with Aziraphale was causing him. A secondary function that had probably saved him from bursting into flames several times already.

Not that life in the bookshop was unpleasant, far from it. No longer having to come up with excuses for seeing his favourite person freed up a lot of headspace and it had not proved to be as big of an adjustment as might reasonably have been expected. Crowley had not found it at all difficult to give up his flat, for example. Tempting a group of squatters to take it over and thus setting a protracted and complex legal dispute in motion had been downright enjoyable. It had worried Aziraphale a little but Crowley had appeased him by telling him that the group would have been homeless otherwise. It might even have been true. What certainly was true was that Crowley was doing all he could to make it absolutely clear that he was all in. Take the previous morning as an example, when Aziraphale had started stuttering after the postman had made a remark regarding the lengthy stay of his house guest, Crowley had felt the need to interject.

‘I’m his partner actually and if you could keep your personal comments to yourself in future, we’d all be a lot…safer.’

The postman had beaten a hasty retreat and would most likely start leaving parcels at the shop next door.

It had been the first time either of them had attempted to define their relationship and ‘partner’ was hardly the word Crowley would have preferred but human terminology for such things was hopelessly limited. It was better than boyfriend, at least. Really, why must everyone gender themselves anyway? It would have made an interesting discussion but Aziraphale had merely murmured something about needing to get cracking with the accounts and disappeared to the back room for the rest of the morning.

Crowley had been swallowing little hurts like that for over six weeks now and the only thing reaping any benefit were the plants, and they would have been very unlikely to agree that this was in their best interest. Batting a perfectly healthy leaf aside, Crowley glowered moodily out of the dirty windows. Struck by a sudden whim, he cleaned them all with a flick of his fingers. As evil deeds went, it was pretty pathetic but Aziraphale would be annoyed and that was sort of the point.

When he returned, however, Aziraphale made absolutely no mention of the shop’s now welcoming visage. With the brightest, most earnest smile, he pulled something out of his basket.

‘The bakery had these right in the window!’ he said, his childish delight sending all the clouds across Crowley’s thoughts skittering away, ‘Apple pie!’

His laughter was like bubbles popping and releasing rainbows. Utterly ridiculous and completely, incredibly wonderful. Crowley wanted to close the distance between them and crush that damn pie in between them as he…

‘Crowley? I thought you’d find it funny.’

‘What? Oh, yes.’

He managed to force a smile which Aziraphale took as confirmation that his joke had gone down incredibly well. Crowley had to endure him giggling about it for the rest of the day. And if he kept making apples appear in places he knew Aziraphale would find them to ensure the joke continued, well, what of it?

It felt a bit like they were hiding out together, waiting for a storm to pass. In the evening Aziraphale would put Tchaikovsky on the record player while he roamed amongst his books, picking random volumes off the shelf and reading a passage aloud until, at the very moment Crowley was ready to snap at him to choose something already, he would say ‘Aha!’ and return holding his chosen volume. Crowley, already lounging on the leather sofa that had been the only thing, beside his plants, that he had seen fit to save from his flat, would close his eyes. Partly because it was relaxing being in the back room of the bookshop, with candles burning, and partly to avoid seeing Aziraphale choose to sit at the table rather than beside him. Again.

They had not so much as brushed past each other in the six weeks Crowley had been in residence. Aziraphale was either adept at seeing past his attempts to push them into closer proximity or Crowley was cursed. Difficult to say which was more likely at this point. The sting of yet another rejection was quick to fade, however, when Aziraphale started to read. His voice was the only thing Crowley wanted to focus on, the story completely irrelevant. It was better than music, better than driving too fast in the dark, better than any of the ways Crowley had devised to amuse himself during the countless nights he had spent alone. He could have listened to him all night, sometimes he did, sometimes Aziraphale closed the book after a few chapters and they sat in silence, and sometimes Crowley fell asleep.

He did not need to sleep, he was a demon after all, but he had long ago developed the habit having considered it as good a way as any of getting through eight to twelve otherwise long and pointless hours. There had been whole centuries when the oblivion of sleep was all there was to look forward to and waking had been such a miserable process that Crowley was left to wonder whether sleep itself had been a demonic invention. On all the nights he had fallen asleep preceding this one, he had woken to an empty room. On this night, however, something woke him.

As he had no frame of reference for how humans slept, he could not be sure that he experienced it in the same way. Certainly it took very little to disturb him. He could filter things out – Aziraphale’s voice, the turning of a page, the scraping of chair legs against the floor as Aziraphale got up to get himself something from the fridge, the breeze from the open window – but anything unexpected or unidentifiable woke him immediately. In this case it was the definite and terrible sense that someone was leaning over him.

‘Ow!’

Crowley sat up so sharply that he collided full force with Aziraphale who promptly dropped the blanket he had been attempting to lay over him and staggered backwards, holding his eye.

‘What are you doing?’ Crowley snarled, trying to rid his mind of horns and hell.

‘I was trying to be nice!’ said Aziraphale, sounding thoroughly put out that his kindness had been thwarted.

‘Oh.’

Crowley waved his hand and Aziraphale’s bruise was lifted from him. He straightened up, looking grateful and a little bit sheepish.

‘Thank you.’

He gave Crowley one of his patented looks, the smallest of glimpses from under his lashes, the one which meant he had a question but he was not sure how it might be received.

‘Out with it,’ said Crowley, leaning back with one arm beneath his head.

‘I didn’t realise that demons went to sleep.’

‘They don’t as a general rule.’

‘So why do you?’

‘Something to do,’ said Crowley, which was about as concise a summary of his reasoning as was possible.

‘What’s it like?’

Aziraphale’s expression was the same wistful longing that Crowley had seen on him when he gazed upon pastries in a shop window.

‘Peaceful,’ Crowley replied, ‘For the most part.’ He decided against mentioning nightmares. ‘You should try it. I could teach you.’

He was not sure this was possible and he certainly had no intention of telling Aziraphale how long it had taken him to be able to shut his mind down enough to let go of consciousness, but it seemed like as good a way as any of getting Aziraphale to lie next to him. But Aziraphale was already shying away, burying what he wanted in layers of goodness and righteousness and purity as always. Angels did not sleep so Aziraphale would not even try. Should not have even entertained the idea. Crowley was so used to it, he should have been immune to the disappointment.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said, coldly, closing his eyes once more. Not that sleep would return for him, it rarely did when he was upset.

Every Sunday, by some prior arrangement that neither of them remembered making, they walked to St James’s Park. The ducks weren’t going to feed themselves, after all. At least according to Aziraphale. Crowley thought they’d probably be a damn sight healthier if people kept their bread to themselves but as long as he got to walk beside Aziraphale and hear him tutting indulgently whenever Crowley saw fit to make a derisory comment about someone walking past then he was not going to argue. Though it was a warm day, there was enough of a breeze for Aziraphale to have donned a scarf though he appeared to be wearing it rather more jauntily than someone might do if they were truly concerned about getting cold. Crowley had spent the last ten minutes wanting to tug the end of it for no better reason than it might make Aziraphale yelp, stop and look him in the eye for a moment. Pining for the person who was right beside him was pathetic enough but when Crowley found himself scanning the humans around them from behind his glasses, looking for the slightest sign that anyone had glanced at them and concluded they were a couple, that’s when he knew he was sliding down into a place so utterly demoralising and demeaning that he had to do something.

‘Look at that one!’ Aziraphale exclaimed. He was reaching into a paper bag and scattering oats in the vague direction of the gathering birds. Perhaps Crowley had made a comment about the evils of feeding them bread after all.

‘They’re hungry today.’

He sounded happy so Crowley did not point out the obvious fact that none of the ducks seemed overly fond of the food they had been offered and were mostly drifting away towards families who had junkier alternatives.

‘Shall we sit down for a while?’

A couple vacated a bench rather too conveniently as they approached. Crowley hadn’t done it, there were other benches, but Aziraphale apparently wanted this particular one and was not morally opposed to ensuring he got it. On another day, in a better mood, Crowley would have been amused.

For a few minutes they sat, a clear thirty centimetres between them, and Crowley tried to decide what he wanted to say and how. It wasn’t the case that he wanted to push Aziraphale into doing anything he did not want to do, though that was very likely how broaching the subject would be interpreted. Starved for touch as he was, Crowley had endured existence without it long enough to know that he could keep going. It was the damn kiss that had messed things up. Though it had undoubtedly brought about the biggest change in their relationship since Crowley had slithered up the wall in Eden and just started talking, The Kiss had also created a barrier between them. It remained undiscussed, an earthquake that had been hastily patched over lest the cracks get any wider. Aziraphale was so obviously afraid of any approach he thought might become physical in any way that he was drawing further away each time, when all Crowley had ever wanted was to feel openly and honestly loved. If Aziraphale was never going to be comfortable with the kind of physical intimacy Crowley craved then so be it, not a deal breaker, but he could not tolerate even another month of being treated like he was one wrong move away from overstaying his welcome. 

‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

Crowley had so expected these words to come out of his mouth that he was momentarily dumbfounded.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Aziraphale, hastily, ‘It’s nothing bad. I just…I wanted to tell you that it’s been an absolute pleasure having you in my home. Our home, obviously.’ He tried to hide his blush by looking away over the lake. ‘It’s rather more than that actually. I know that I haven’t always been the best at showing it but I do so hope you know that these have been the very best weeks of my entire life.’

Aziraphale patted his own knees, a physical piece of punctuation.

‘There. I said it.’

Crowley wanted to reach for his hand then and hold on so tight that no being in Heaven or Hell would ever be able to separate them from each other but the risk of ruining the moment was too great. He too looked out over the same lake they had viewed from this spot so many times over time. Never had it looked quite as spectacularly beautiful.

'Did you have something on your mind?’ Aziraphale asked, cautiously, ‘It felt as if you might have something to say too.’

‘Me? No.’ Crowley crossed one leg over the other, one arm hooked round the back of the bench. ‘I’m just enjoying the moment, angel.’

‘Oh. Good.’

Aziraphale flashed him one his sweetest smiles and Crowley felt, not for the first time, that God really had outdone Herself on this one. Not impressed with the apple tree in the garden? Okay, here you go, have the most beautiful being in creation inches from you and not be able to touch him. Crowley could almost hear Her laughing hysterically. Well, fuck Her. He’d just been told that he’d given Aziraphale the best weeks of his life, knowledge like that could sustain him for another thousand years. Realising he was smiling, Crowley tilted his head towards his angel.

‘We should go for lunch somewhere. Wherever you want.’

‘Really?’ Aziraphale was the very picture of joy. ‘Would it be terribly predictable of me to suggest the Ritz?’

‘The Ritz it is.’

‘You spoil me, Crowley.’

‘Mmm.’

Crowley was still smiling, a fact that lasted throughout the entire day prompting Aziraphale to enquire, semi-seriously, if he was feeling okay. Crowley replied that of course he was, keep reading, and as he let the words drift over him, he let his imagination take him where reality could not.

Crowley’s happiness lasted them through to the next month but, like all things, it could not last forever. It was nothing that Aziraphale did or did not do that caused things to shift in him but still Crowley tried adamantly to cling to the belief that there was something he could do to avoid the return of the darkness he had never once been able to escape. For a few days he became Aziraphale’s shadow, following him around the shop, offering to help with things he had never helped with before, asking questions about books and forgetting the answers immediately so that he asked the same thing ten minutes later. Aziraphale tolerated this bizarre behaviour but could not hide his evident concern. Crowley said he was fine over and over again until the word took on a biting quality that meant Aziraphale stopped asking questions and took to glancing at him whenever he thought Crowley was not looking, his worried frown only making things worse.

It was when he stopped shouting at his plants when Aziraphale left the shop that Crowley knew he had lost. He took to waiting fretfully near the door for his return, painfully aware of his desperation, his fervent wish for Aziraphale to be light enough to keep him from succumbing to the dark that was coming. But no light in Heaven was bright enough to outshine the dark when it had taken hold, and Crowley knew, he just knew, that Aziraphale was not going to be able to cope with him at his worst.

Neither of them had spent much time upstairs, as a result the whole upper floor had the cold, slightly musty feel of an unloved space. Crowley sidestepped an avalanche of books that had broken free of their storage box, barely noticing the fusty wallpaper. The curtains were wide open but Crowley had neither the desire nor the energy to close them. The bed was a huge four poster that Aziraphale kept made up despite never using the thing. Lying down on it did not bring relief so much as allow Crowley to let go of all resistance, waves of darkness immediately closing over his head. This was where Aziraphale found him an hour later, lying on his side, staring at the wall and willing himself out of existence.

When it became obvious that Crowley was neither willing nor able to explain what was happening, Aziraphale announced that he was going to make tea and disappeared off again. When he came back, he spent a long time fussing with the teapot. He seemed to be aware that he was being irritating and every time the lid of the teapot wobbled or the teaspoon clinked against the china apologies poured out of him. Crowley wanted to press his hands over his ears but that would have required movement, and movement hurt.

‘Here,’ said Aziraphale, gently placing a cup and saucer down beside the bed. There were two biscuits on the saucer’s rim. Having attempted a cure, he sort of lingered in the room for a while before Crowley’s silence drove him back downstairs to his books.

The night fell slowly as Crowley tried not to disappear. It felt like he was staring into the centre of a gaping, endless void. Unable to step back, it was taking all the energy and willpower he had just to stay right on the edge. He knew what the void contained – regret, agony, guilt, shame – and what it did not. Aziraphale did not belong anywhere near the void, he did not belong anywhere near Crowley, he deserved someone good, someone pure, someone who had never, ever been tempted to do anything as unforgivably awful as Fall. He was going to fall again, it was inevitable, he would never stop falling.

‘Do you mind if I come in?’

Aziraphale’s voice was like a gentle push backwards, a tiny reprieve.

‘I thought I might come and sit with you for a while, if you didn’t mind.’

He was so hesitant, so unsure, that it was easy for Crowley to assume that what Aziraphale really wanted was to be told to go away and never come back. After a minute of silence, in which Crowley expected to hear him walking away, Aziraphale came into view.

‘If you want me to leave, you’ll have to say so. Otherwise…’

He did not summon a chair or stand awkwardly by the window as he had done after bringing the tea, instead he sat right down on the bed. Crowley stopped breathing. If he moved now, Aziraphale would definitely leave and he would be lost. As Aziraphale adjusted the cushions at his back, fussing in the kind of familiar way that made it seem like he was forever climbing into bed with catatonic demons, Crowley experienced the kind of cognitive dissonance that was not usually possible when he was this far gone. Somehow Aziraphale must not have realised how close they were to touching, otherwise he would be on the other side of the bed, putting the most distance between them as he could. Because he did not want Crowley to touch him, he’d made that perfectly, painfully clear. And that was okay, it was understandable, it was deserved. But surely he must have realised that it would only take the slightest movement to accidentally make contact. It couldn’t be intentional but maybe it was…? No, any moment Aziraphale was going to leap up like he’d been scalded and Crowley would know as he already knew that there was no amount of time, no repentance, no chance in the universe that he would ever be good enough to be with an angel.

‘It’s okay, you know. To feel things.’

Aziraphale was tracing the title of the book on his lap with one finger, as if it was a script he had prepared earlier.

‘Even bad things. Not that I have the best track record with admitting to uncomfortable feelings but it’s true, it is okay. If it means anything, I have always admired how you handle it. I wouldn’t be anywhere near as stoic if I’d…’ He hesitated and then pressed on with renewed determination. ‘You make it look so bearable a lot of the time that it’s easy to overlook what you’ve been through, but I haven’t forgotten. I don’t know how it feels, and I might never truly understand what it is you’re going through, but I know you carry a lot of pain. I have always known it. And I have often wished that I could take that pain from you. I actually tried once. But it turns out even miracles have their limits.’

Crowley was struggling to comprehend just how well Aziraphale knew him because if he knew him, and he still…then didn’t that mean…? A tangible detail was easier to hold onto.

‘When?’

Presumably Aziraphale had assumed he was engaging in more of a monologue than a conversation for he gave a little start.

‘Oh, I don’t know. It must have been after Paris. You had come to my rescue, after all, and I felt I owed you rather more than lunch.’

After Paris. Crowley was so busy making connections that he had not realised the miracle that was happening right at that moment. Namely that he was thinking, that he was not falling, that he was entirely present when moments ago he had been drowning. After Paris, yes, there had been a stretch of years when he had felt lighter, freer. He remembered because he had thought, wildly, stupidly, that there was tiniest chance that God might have decided against the whole eternal damnation thing and begun to think about forgiving him.

‘But anyway,’ said Aziraphale, ‘It didn’t work. Foolish of me to think it would but I couldn’t help it. At least it didn’t do any harm.’

Crowley had tried so hard to be good, deflecting the orders from Hell or, in some cases, downright disobeying them. Things had got nasty between him and head office, threats were made, but still Crowley had tried to hold out until one day the darkness was there, right in front of him, huge and menacing and unavoidable. It had been waiting all along, getting stronger, feasting on his hope, and when it claimed him he fell so hard into the void that it had taken him a decade to crawl his way out. The things he had done during that decade, the orders he had followed, would haunt him forever.

‘Angel?’

‘Yes, Crowley?’

Aziraphale would have said yes if Crowley had asked him. It could have been immediate, long lasting relief. They could have years of it and, if Hell really did leave him alone, maybe Crowley would be able to keep the darkness from coming back this time.

‘Please don't move.’

It was a different level of risk and he was still terrified, so sure that it was going to fail, but he tried anyway. Closing the tiny gap between them, Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s thigh, lay his hand very lightly on his knee. All he had to do next was breathe in and breathe out, and wait.

Slowly, cautiously, Aziraphale removed one hand from the book on his lap and brought it down to rest on Crowley’s head. And then, with the tiniest of movements, he began to caress his hair.

Crowley must have made some sound then, some tiny outward indication of the torrent of emotions flooding through him, for Aziraphale, in a gentle whisper said, ‘It’s going to be just fine, I promise. Everything’s going to be just fine.’


	3. But She Might

There were five people currently browsing the shelves, one flicking through a ridiculously inaccurate biography of Oscar Wilde and another who had settled down cross legged near the window some time ago with a stack of books he was methodically working through with the attitude of someone who has absolutely no intention of paying for anything. Seven people! It was like Piccadilly Circus. Crowley would never believe it, Aziraphale thought. He was close to dismissing them all with a well-timed miracle just so he could tell him when, as if Aziraphale had summoned him, Crowley strolled right into the shop to join them all.

Half hidden behind the shelves, Aziraphale watched Crowley take in the room. He had reclaimed his glasses but Aziraphale knew he was checking on the status of his plants. Aziraphale hoped he had been a good steward of them all in his absence, he had even spoken fondly to them a few times and he thought that had perked up the one in the corner that had been looking a bit peaky. Satisfied, Crowley then turned his attention to the shoppers, one of whom was staring at him in a way that made Aziraphale’s insides squirm with something very close to jealousy. Not that he blamed anyone for staring, frankly it was beyond him why people did not choose to stare at Crowley as much as possible whenever they got the chance. It was a quite wonderful thing to do. He was just beginning to settle into an appreciative gaze of his own when Crowley’s focus sharpened. He had noticed the man on the carpet, the man who was now folding down a corner of a book so that he could come back to it at a later date and pick up where he had left off.

‘Till’s over there.’

The page folder looked up, his look of flagrant unconcern faltering as it met its own reflection in Crowley’s dark glasses.

‘Thanks, mate. I’ve not finished browsing yet.’

Crowley smiled, a dangerous predatory smile that immediately caused both Aziraphale and its recipient considerable alarm.

‘I think you are finished. I think you’re going to buy all of them. And this one.’ Crowley hooked a random book off the shelf without looking at it. The man flinched as it landed on his lap. ‘And this one. Oh, and this one too.’

The man began stammering about needing to go, books falling from him to land splayed at his feet.

‘You can go when you’ve paid,’ said Crowley, smoothly. The man shot an appealing glance over at Aziraphale who returned it with an it’s-really-okay-if-you-don’t-buy-anything-peace-be-with-you kind of smile but there was no arguing with Crowley. When the man’s credit card was swiped, he visibly winced.

‘Cheerio then,’ said Crowley. His look of triumph made Aziraphale’s heart skip a beat but he made a show of disapproval all the same.

‘Was that really necessary? We don’t know the man’s financial situation, you could have bankrupted him.’

‘Me? It’s your shop.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Aziraphale flustered, ‘But I thought you might have intended to something unpleasant to him if he didn’t pay. In a way, you could say I was saving him.’

‘You certainly were,’ said Crowley, now frowning at one of the leaves on the nearest plant, ‘Ten angel points for you. I think we should go out to dinner to celebrate.’

‘Dinner?’

The word sprang out of him, too loud and too hopeful, making the remaining shoppers look up and then quickly away again. Aziraphale was not usually one for drawing attention to himself in such a manner but Crowley had not left the house for weeks, had barely been vertical for much of that time, and though there had been a fair few good moments, it had felt like it might be a very long time before they might do anything as normal as going for dinner.

‘Well?’

Crowley was looking annoyed though surely he must have known what the answer would be.

‘I’d love to. Anywhere you like. Actually there’s a new place that’s opened up just down the road, Lebanese I believe. I got talking to the owner just the other day, lovely woman. Quite an inquisitive sort. Asked me if I had a wife at home. When I told her about you, she was most insistent that I take you to meet her once you were feeling better.’

Aziraphale could feel himself blushing both at the admission and the memory, it really had been nice describing Crowley to a stranger – he’d had to be a bit creative with the truth, of course, but the best parts were all true. Crowley, who was giving few outward signs that he was interested in where this conversation was headed, pinched a dead flower between his fingers and tossed it aside.

‘You talked about me?’

His energy did not lie, blazing as it was with the kind of intensity that had sent Aziraphale running so many times.

‘Well, she asked,’ he replied, weakly.

‘And what did you say?’

Crowley had moved ever so slightly closer and Aziraphale could feel himself starting to panic. There were witnesses. And if Crowley kept looking at him like that, they were going all going to see how much Aziraphale longed to be able to respond in kind.

‘I said you’d recently moved in with me,’ said Aziraphale, trying to manoeuvre so that there was a table between them without it seeming like he was trying to distance himself, ‘I told her that it was going well.’

He was sure the words he had chosen in his conversation with the restaurant owner had been far more eloquent and complimentary but out on the street, Crowley a safe distance away, his head had not been full of the kind of thoughts that were not befitting an angel. He tried to focus on something, the buttons on the till, a knot in the wood on the table, the bookshop keys resting in their little saucer, but it was torment not to look at Crowley and once he’d done that it was impossible not to want him to move closer and do the wicked things that danced through his mind.

‘Excuse me, how much is this?’

A young woman with pink streaks in her dark hair was holding a book out to Crowley. He turned very slowly to look at her.

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

Aziraphale, who really did not think the woman deserved to be punished for mistaking Crowley for the owner of a bookshop, was quick to intercede.

‘Let me help you. You’ll find the price on the inside cover. I mark it very lightly in pencil so it might have worn away. This book has been here quite some time, I’ve no idea why as it really is a delightful story.’

By the time he had packed the book up in a paper bag and sent the young lady on her way, Crowley had vanished and Aziraphale, the pit of his stomach still churning unpleasantly, was left to once again nurse the sting of feeling that he had failed. Crowley was going to lose patience with him. It was a miracle - to use the human phrase – that he hadn’t already. Aziraphale wished there was a way to show how hard he was trying but that would require an explanation, and the last thing Crowley needed was to be told the reason Aziraphale was holding himself back.

He would not survive Falling, Aziraphale had believed that very firmly from the beginning. Even with Crowley beside him, even knowing Crowley as he did, the idea of losing his wings was every bit as terrible as when God herself had warned him of the consequences of straying from the path. It was Her voice Aziraphale heard condemning him whenever Crowley got too close, and the fear She inspired him was only matched by his terror of never hearing Her again. Once you knew Heaven and God’s love, how could you ever live without them? Aziraphale chewed on this question as the bookshop emptied around him. When the last person had left and the closed sign had been flipped, he took a moment to rearrange his expression before finding Crowley.

‘Ready for dinner?’

Being out for the evening was not as much fun as Aziraphale had hoped. Crowley was in a sullen mood, leaning back in his chair and angling himself so that Aziraphale was faced with his sharp profile. This was disconcerting enough but every now and then Crowley would scowl into the middle distance as if he was waiting for something and was enduring the delay with bad grace. As he had not ordered anything other than the black coffee that was sitting untouched in front of him, Aziraphale was forced to conclude that the thing he was waiting for was meant to come from him. Feeling flustered and slightly embarrassed by Crowley’s behaviour, he overcompensated, talking too loudly and for far too long to the waitress and ordering a ridiculous number of dishes. When the food began to arrive, he pushed some of it towards Crowley in the hope that he might forget himself and actually eat something. He tried to make conversation, pointing out trivialities such as the art on the walls and the patterning on the tablecloth, but even he was aware that he was stalling and eventually Crowley’s patience wore thin.

‘Out with it, angel.’

‘Pardon?’

‘We both know you have a question you want to ask me so get on with it.’

Aziraphale fussed with his napkin. He did not want to do this, and he certainly did not want to do it in public. The restaurant was quiet, the ambient music just loud enough to keep conversations discrete, but it would not have taken much for someone to overhear something they should not.

‘Couldn’t we do this at home?’ he whispered.

Crowley did not answer which was answer enough. The napkin was well and truly shredded now. Aziraphale took a deep breath. It was just like any other time they’d been sitting across from each other, he did not need to overthink it, and he really had been meaning to ask this question for at least three thousand years.

‘Did it hurt? It must have, I know it did, but was it very bad?’

Crowley did not ask what Aziraphale was referring to, he simply nodded.

‘What did it feel like exactly?’

At this Crowley turned to look at him, his eyes were hidden as they so often were when they were in public, but Aziraphale suddenly found himself wishing he had the courage to ask him to remove his glasses. He wanted to see the truth. He wanted so desperately to know.

‘You don’t need to know how it feels, you’re never going to Fall.’

‘That’s the thing,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I do need to know, I need to know if what I’m feeling is…if it’s…’ He was saying it, the fear that had been twisting inside of him for so very long was about to see the light. ‘I get this pain and it’s too much. I don’t know what it is and I wonder if…if maybe it’s the beginnings of damnation.’

The corner of Crowley’s mouth began to lift and Aziraphale felt a chilling sense of mortification flood through him.

‘Don’t,’ he said, blinking away sudden tears, ‘Don’t laugh at me, Crowley.’

Any suggestion of a smile vanished instantly.

‘Sorry.’

Crowley reached a hand across the small table but stopped short of touching Aziraphale’s arm.

‘You’re not Falling.’

‘I might be.’

‘Trust me,’ said Crowley, forcefully, ‘I have far more experience in this area.’

‘Then why does it hurt? Why does everything between us hurt?’

‘Everything?’

‘Well, no, not everything.’

Aziraphale thought about all the things that did not hurt. The park benches, the nights reading, the ludicrously heated argument they’d had the day before over who was the best baker on the Bake Off.

‘There are things I think about,’ he said, shame clutching at his throat, ‘Things I want, they are the things that hurt.’

He had not explained himself at all well yet Crowley looked as if he understood. Leaning forwards slightly, he turned his wrist so that his hand was now palm up.

‘Let me ask you a question. Has God appeared before you and personally cast you from the Kingdom of Heaven for all of eternity?’

‘Well…no.’

‘Then you’re fine.’ 

‘But She might.’

‘She won’t,’ said Crowley in a tone that indicated he would be taking it up with the Almighty personally if She should even consider it.

‘You can’t protect me from God, Crowley.’

At this, Crowley looked offended.

‘I did a fairly adequate job with Satan, didn’t I?’

‘True.’

The waitress returned at that point. She made no comment on the large amount of uneaten food. Bless her. Aziraphale would make sure she was rewarded handsomely when it came time for the bill.

‘It’s too much, that’s the problem,’ said Crowley, once she had walked away, ‘I’m too much.’

‘No, that’s not…’

‘I don’t want to cause you pain. I have never wanted that.’

‘I know,’ said Aziraphale because he did, because Crowley never intentionally tried to hurt him. The same could not be said of him. Over and over again, he had pushed Crowley away and been forgiven for it. And he was still doing it.

‘What do we do then?’ Crowley asked, ‘Is there some kind of assurance you need from me? Some line you don’t want me to cross? Because I’d be okay with that. I just want to be with you really, that’s all. Anything else is just…decoration.’

Aziraphale took a sip of his wine, it helped him think. There were an awful lot of things he could say, things he had imagined, things that snaked into his mind whenever he let his guard down, but listing them as forbidden seemed rather unkind. Approaching the task from the opposite direction seemed more manageable.

‘I think holding hands would be okay.’

Crowley smiled the kind of smile that made Aziraphale want to forget about setting rules and dive straight into the flames.

‘Holding hands. Got it.’

Crowley’s hand was right there on the table. Aziraphale only had to lay his on top. That was all, no great effort required.

‘Maybe later?’ said Crowley, releasing him from his dilemma.

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, grateful beyond the expressing of it, ‘Definitely.’

It was not late, and even if it was, what did such things matter to them? They had decided to walk for a while, aimlessly, the cool night air refreshing after all they had discussed. Somehow it was easier not to overthink while they were on the move. When they arrived at the river, the water darker than the sky, Aziraphale simply reached out and took Crowley’s hand. A thrill went straight through him, a jolt of pure energy so shocking that he almost let go again but their fingers were already laced together. Crowley was smiling softly, casually, and pretty soon Aziraphale realised he was too. It felt normal, like they did it all the time, like they would continue to do it for the rest of eternity.

The phone was ringing. Again. Aziraphale ignored it. He was sitting on the sofa and despite being squished up against the arm rest, he had never been more comfortable. It had taken many weeks of solid effort and practice but Aziraphale had slowly been getting braver. From hand holding, he had progressed to choosing to sit beside Crowley whenever the opportunity presented itself. Then, a few weeks ago, quite out of the blue as far as Crowley was concerned, Aziraphale had kissed his hand. The way Crowley had looked at him then, like he had come undone and been put back together in the same instant, had made it easier to keep going. And now, Aziraphale was at home in his shop, surrounded by his books, on a comfortable sofa with Crowley’s head in his lap. Quite why anyone believed Heaven must be clinically clean, white and cold, Aziraphale would never understand. Surely there was more Heaven in this moment than an angel like Gabriel could ever hope to comprehend.

A slight frown appeared on Crowley’s face but his eyes were still closed as he said, ‘Phone’s ringing again.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Someone really wants to get through to you.’

‘It’s probably…’

Aziraphale caught himself just in time.

‘Were you going to say me?’

Crowley’s eyes opened to reveal startlingly gold irises, glittering with amusement.

‘You’re the only person I could think of who would try that hard to get hold of me,’ said Aziraphale, deciding that leaning into the embarrassment was marginally better than denying it.

‘I did like the sound of your voice,’ said Crowley, closing his eyes and resettling himself. 

Aziraphale stared very hard at the words on the page in front of him, not taking in their meaning. When Crowley moved, even a little, it was very difficult to concentrate.

‘Did like?’ he said, after so long that Crowley had lost the thread of the conversation. ‘You said you did like my voice? Is it losing its appeal?’

He was trying to keep things light. He had learned that Crowley could be easily led into reassuring declarations of affection that Aziraphale was not yet capable of, but there was a deeper, truer undercurrent to his enquiries. They had known each other for a long time, but for the greater part of that time they had been apart. Aziraphale had started to worry that perhaps it was the novelty of their meetings, the secrecy, the tension, which held Crowley’s interest far more than anything he might possess.

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ said Crowley, seeing right through him as he so often did, ‘You’ll have to try something else if you want me to be nice to you.’

Aziraphale did not know what possessed him but he found himself tossing his book aside, a quick miracle would fix the damaged pages later.

‘Something like this?’ he asked. With one hand he traced Crowley’s cheekbone, his feather light touch moving down to his jaw, as Crowley took in a slightly ragged breath. When his eyes opened, Aziraphale saw such a devastating mixture of gratitude and longing that pain and doubt no longer mattered. His thoughts danced ahead of him, hot and forbidden, impossible to resist and he was sure, absolutely positive, that Crowley could see his intentions written plain on his face.

And then, louder than it had ever been, as insistent as an alarm, the phone in the next room began to ring once more.

‘Ignore it,’ said Crowley.

But the sound was getting underneath Aziraphale’s skin, reminding him where he was, who he was. A shivering feeling of disgrace crept over him, dousing the flames he had been so ready to embrace. Crowley was sitting up.

‘Ignore it,’ he hissed, the way demons did when there was a wrong and a right thing to do and they were trying to get you to pick a side. And if this demon’s beautiful eyes were pleading as he said it, even more reason to be strong and do as you had been taught.

‘I can’t,’ said Aziraphale, pushing Crowley away in his haste to stand, ‘It might be important.’

He hurried out of the room but was not quick enough to escape hearing Crowley mutter bitterly, ‘I should never have bought you the damn thing.’

The receiver’s reassuring weight helped Aziraphale slip back into the right frame of mind for answering what was no doubt a professional enquiry.

‘Good evening, you’ve reached Fell and Co, how many I assist you?’

‘Mr Fell?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I have been trying to contact you for some time.’

‘Ah, my apologies for having inconvenienced you.’

‘You would have been sorry had I sold to another collector.’

‘Is that so? Well, I am sorry to disappoint you but I’m not looking to buy anything at present. My inventory is rather full so whatever it is, I’m afraid I’m not interested.’

‘Not interested? Not interested in the Book of the Battles of Yahweh.’

‘Well, naturally I would be interested in something as precious as that, if only it existed. Scholars have long postulated…’

‘I’m telling you that’s what I’ve got. It’s in front of me right now.’

‘Sir, that would undoubtedly be a find worthy of redefining the…’

‘I know how much it’s worth.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Aziraphale, who was wondering how he could wrap up this prank call. Unscrupulous people had been trying to part him with his money ever since he had first opened the shop. Only very rarely did cold calls such as this turn into anything worth investigating.

‘Perhaps if I read a passage…’

‘Really, that won’t be…’

The man began to read in a low, strident voice and almost at once Aziraphale recognised the words for what they were. It was a war song, a rallying cry in a language he had not heard in such a long time. Astonishment froze him in place. It couldn’t be.

‘You see, I tell you the truth. And I’m inviting you to come and see for yourself. I’m not willing to sell to just anyone, I am looking for the most discerning, the most respectful, the most…’

‘That’s me,’ Aziraphale interrupted, ‘Absolutely, it would be an honour, no, far more than that, I really don’t have the words to…’

‘Tomorrow then.’

He gave an address which Aziraphale hastily scribbled down. When he placed the phone down, he considered the facts. It was next to impossible that the trader who had called him had what he professed to own, however authentic the reading had sounded, but it would only take a simple trip across London the next day to verify one way or another.

‘The only problem is that I’ve got a delivery coming and they’ve given me a rather vague window. I mean, any time between eight and six, what kind of devilish work is that? It puts me in quite the bind.’

‘Seems like you’ll have to give meeting up with the nutter a miss.’

Crowley had shown absolutely no interest in the possible discovery of a lost book of the Bible which was hardly a surprise but Aziraphale had hoped he might be persuaded to assist nonetheless.

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that. What if it is the Book of Battles?’

‘But it won’t be, will it? People don’t just find ancient transcripts from the Almighty down the back of their sofa.’

‘But one of us could check, just to make sure.’

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

‘And by one of us, you mean…?’

Aziraphale returned his look with an innocently hopeful one of his own.

‘I would be ever so grateful.’

Crowley did not look like this was sufficient an enticement so Aziraphale returned to the sofa, sitting beside him so that he could rest his hand very lightly on Crowley’s knee.

‘Would it help if I said please?’

The next morning, after demolishing a rather large plate of scrambled eggs, Aziraphale was about ready to open the shop. Crowley, who had slept for the entire night in the bed upstairs, something that continued to astonish Aziraphale, had not yet made an appearance which was making him slightly nervous. The man on the telephone had said to meet him at ten and it would require a miracle to get through the traffic in anything less than an hour. A miracle and a driver used to defying every known speed limit. Aziraphale was wondering whether he should go upstairs and wake Crowley, the idea of being the first thing he saw was sweet enough to overcome the risk of Crowley being none too pleased to be woken, when there came the sound of movement. Crowley had donned a dark jacket and glasses and looked quite capable of stealing souls aplenty. Unsettled by his conflicted feelings, Aziraphale chose to step forwards.

‘You’re here.’

Crowley gave him an odd look.

‘Where else would I be? I live here.’

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, surprised anew by the truth. Crowley lived here with him and he was about to go off and run an errand and return to their home. Aziraphale wanted to reach for him, take the front of his jacket in both hands and pull him close. He wanted to say goodbye in a better way than words. Crowley could have done it, if Aziraphale would only release him from the sketchy terms of their relationship agreement.

‘What’s the address then?’ Crowley asked, breaking through Aziraphale’s thoughts, ‘I want to get this over with.’

Aziraphale handed it over, their hands briefly touching. It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t just let Crowley go without doing something.

'Do be careful, won’t you? Don’t drive too fast.’

Crowley pulled a face.

‘I’m serious,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I need you home safe.’

‘I’m only going to look at a bloody book. Unless you think I’m at serious risk of multiple paper cuts, I think I’ll…’

Aziraphale rose up on his toes and kissed Crowley on the cheek. His manner changed at once.

‘I’ll be careful, angel.’

And with that, Crowley was gone, leaving Aziraphale to savour the moment, blissfully unaware that the love of his eternal life was driving himself straight into danger.


	4. Black Feathers and White

The Bentley’s engine roared as Crowley sent the car spinning round bends in a manner that directly contradicted his promise to Aziraphale mere minutes ago. There was an element of care in the way he miracled his path clear but the sense of freedom the car and the road gave him was too glorious to resist. He needed to drive more. 

As far as Crowley was concerned, the purpose of the trip was to prove a fake, administer a little light punishment for raising the hopes of an angelic bookseller who deserved more respect, and then procure something to bring back for Aziraphale that would go down as a pleasant if inadequate replacement for a priceless book. There was always cake. Crowley’s mind went off on a tangent as he considered how Aziraphale would react to the offer of afternoon tea. It would not take much persuasion to get him to close the shop early and Crowley would be able to spend the afternoon watching him and imagining how it would feel to lick the jam off his fingers. Hopelessly distracted, he sped through three separate sets of red lights, horns blaring out around him.

The meeting point was in a part of London in which Crowley had few recent memories, he thought some of the buildings looked familiar but their original use had long since been supplanted. Independent coffee shops and the kind of small restaurants that had gone extinct in most of inner London dominated the ground floors with slightly dilapidated offices piled on top. He left the Bentley parked brazenly on a double yellow, ignoring the disbelieving stare of the traffic warden across the street. Let her write him one hell of a ticket. Wheel clamping was more fun anyway.

The address Aziraphale had been given led Crowley to a narrow doorway with a five way buzzer. One of them had a name written on the label in smudgy black ink, the rest were blank. Crowley went for the name.

‘Yes?’

‘Here about the book.’

‘You’re late.’

Crowley was not, in fact, late but before he could point this out the crackling intercom went silent and the door in front of him gave a jarring buzz. This brief interaction, irksome as it was, would not normally have been sufficient to conjure in Crowley a maleficent mood but this collector was expecting Aziraphale, and the thought of anyone speaking to his angel in such a way made Crowley very aware of the power he had been keeping in check. Climbing the stairs, he briefly wrestled with the knowledge that Aziraphale would be unlikely to approve of his method of teaching manners. He would not have to know, of course, but still, Crowley did not like thinking of his disapproval. The collector would have one more chance. After that, all bets were off.

The building appeared to be deserted, the stairs creaking ominously as Crowley ascended. Wallpaper was peeling from the walls, mould creeping down from the ceiling. With every step he took he felt more relieved that Aziraphale had stayed at home. This felt like a place good people came to die. Fortunately, Crowley did not consider himself good and he had no intention of letting a human with ill intent get the better of him. The door ahead had a glass panel, on the other side of which had been taped a sign which read: Antiques and Ancient Relics, Enquire Within. Crowley did not bother to knock and walked straight in.

Two things happened simultaneously, there was a sharp snap as the door closed behind him and the room flooded with an intense white light. Crowley hissed, the protection of his glasses not sufficient to stop the pain of it. Light had never hurt him before, the full glare of the sun no issue, which meant this illumination only had one source. Forcing his eyes open, Crowley saw a figure sitting across from him in an otherwise empty room. The straight backed stance, the immaculate hair, the sharp suit, there was no mistaking the Archangel Michael.

‘Right on time,’ she said, uncrossing her legs and smiling at him in a way designed to let Crowley know that he was fucked.

Through the shock, Crowley somehow managed to hold on to the importance of not letting Michael see how badly he was panicking. His wings unfurled as he tensed, ready to strike the moment she moved. An Archangel should have easily outmatched a single demon but Crowley was not going to let such defeatist thoughts gain ground. He had done a lot of things that demons were supposedly unable to do, driven through hellfire, stopped time, sent Satan back to the Underworld to name but a few, he could do this too. And if he needed additional motivation, he need only remind himself that Michael had not laid this trap for him.

‘There’s no need to get all riled up,’ said Michael, ‘I just want to talk.’

Crowley had no intention of talking. He was just wondering how remote his chances were if he simply flew directly at Michael and took her by surprise when she said something that cut straight through his calculations.

‘I remember you, you know. From Before.’

The words were hooks, designed to reach down into the deepest part of him, each one attached to a line that Michael held firmly, ready to pull.

‘Perhaps you remember me too? An eager, aspiring soldier for the Lord? In awe of the one who created the stars.’

Something was unravelling in Crowley’s mind. He needed her to stop talking. He needed to focus on how he was getting out of this alive. 

‘Oh, I remember you,’ said Michael, her smile widening, ‘And I know exactly how far you had to Fall to get here.’

She stood and Crowley had to fight hard not to flinch. There was something unpredictable about her, her mood and manner no indication of when the attack might come.

‘I’ve always wondered,’ she said, moving a little closer to him, ‘Whether you knew.’

Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinised his face.

‘I thought you must have suspected at the very least but now I wonder…’

With a beckoning gesture Michael drew his glasses away from his eyes and into her hand. Her face, though superficially unchanged, so resembled an angel’s true form that Crowley had to fight hard not to look away. She was far too close to him now, too close and too powerful and he had nowhere to run.

‘It was me, Crowley,’ she said as if the words were delicious to her, ‘I heard the questions you asked when you thought no one of consequence was listening. I heard you question God’s plan time and time again, as if you believed yourself to be wiser than any of us, wiser even than God Herself. She was angry, _so_ angry when I told Her.’

Pain rose up in him so violently that Crowley acted without thinking. Michael was driven backwards away from him, her wings extending so that suddenly the room was full of black feathers and white. Crowley advanced on her, ready and able to tear her apart. He had forgotten that he could not defeat an Archangel, he had forgotten that his one objective was to get back to Aziraphale, he had forgotten everything but that he was Fallen and Michael was the reason. In his black rage, it took him far too long to realise that Michael was laughing.

‘Oh Crowley,’ she said as she produced a magnificent golden sceptre topped with an ornate cross. Crowley felt its power from across the room and knew he was looking at his own defeat. Ordinary objects such as horseshoes, crosses and Bibles could not hurt him any more than regular water but blessing a holy relic transformed it into a weapon. Something Michael knew all too well. Crowley had a fleeting moment to wonder whether the sceptre in her hand had been blessed by God Herself before Michael began to move towards him.

‘You used to be something beautiful and now look at you,’ she said, her face full of false regret, ‘Sit.’

There was one chair, the one on which she had been waiting for him. Manacles fastened themselves around Crowley’s wrists the moment he sat down. Michael approached him slowly until the sceptre’s cross was inches from his chest. Crowley tried to prepare himself for how it would feel when it touched him but pain was a tricky bastard, no matter how well acquainted you were with it there was no way to stop it from shocking you anew. Looking away from it and into Michael’s victorious face, Crowley did not allow his fear a single outlet.

‘What’s the plan then, Michael? Not like you to get your hands dirty.’

‘Oh, I don’t plan to,’ she said, lowering the threatening sceptre and leaning on it as if it were nothing more than a walking aid, ‘I have an associate.’

She stepped lightly to the right giving him an unimpeded view of the now open door as Hastur, Duke of Hell, limped into the room. There seemed to be something wrong with the left side of his body, his leg dragging, his arm unmoving, the skin on the left side of his face blistered and raw. Something had done a very good job of crushing him in its jaws, at least half of him, the other half being the same Hastur that Crowley knew and loathed. It could not have been clearer that the feeling was mutual.

‘Well,’ said Michael, cheerfully, ‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’

Hastur gave her a curt nod, acknowledgement of some prior agreement, then watched her, or more accurately her sceptre, until she had left the room. Crowley tested his restraints. It was irrational to fear Hastur more than Michael, particularly in light of the day’s new information. Hastur might have threatened him countless times but Michael had damned him. And yet, as Hastur turned his black eyes on him, Crowley almost felt compelled to request the angel’s return.

‘I never liked you, Crowley.’

This felt like a fairly spectacular understatement but Crowley had enough experience with self-preservation to keep this thought to himself.

‘I tried to tell them what you were but they never listened.’ Hastur pointed downwards with his right hand. ‘You never claimed souls but they didn’t care. You told them you started wars but I never believed you. Always too clever for your own good. Always playing your own game.

‘You betrayed us, you betrayed our Master. I wanted to watch you die but you couldn’t even give me that. I don’t know how you became immune to holy water, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know anything more about you. You’re all I’ve talked about for months.’

His expression turned bitter and he spat something black and gelatinous onto the floor before he continued.

‘I've been asked so many questions. Hastur, why wasn’t the Crowley situation brought to our attention? Hastur, if you had suspicions, why was he allowed to remain on Earth? Hastur, how is it that Crowley managed to slip from your grasp time and time again? They didn’t like my answers. _He_ didn’t like them.’

Hastur shivered and turned abruptly away. Crowley who had remained completely still during Hastur’s monologue redoubled his efforts to free himself. Whatever was coming, he was going to need a lot more than luck and a smart mouth to survive it.

A table had appeared against the wall, empty but for two objects. Crowley recognised his glasses but the second item was harder to identify. It looked like some kind of power tool.

‘I don’t trust that Michael,’ said Hastur, picking it up and viewing it with an odd mix of distaste and admiration, ‘But she does have some good ideas.’

He lowered the tool over the glasses and slowly, deliberately, squeezed a button on its handle. With a bang which made Crowley wince one of the lenses exploded. Speared into the table at a perfect ninety degree angle was a five inch nail. Hastur’s smile, visible on the half of his face still capable of movement, said it all. A fine bloody time for him to embrace technology.

Crowley felt his remaining options narrowing down to a single point. It had to be time to try the desperate pleading thing, you know, just in case half of Hastur’s personality had been mangled along with the rest of him.

‘They don’t want me in Hell, Hastur. You heard them at the trial, better I stay up here out of everyone’s way.’

‘I heard.’

‘So let’s just call this a draw and go our separate ways. I won’t interfere with your plans and you can forget I ever existed.’

‘A draw?’

‘Or a win,’ Crowley amended hastily, ‘For you. Whatever sells better. We could come to some arrangement surely. I could teach you the trick with the holy water, might come in handy one day.’

‘You’ll be ready to give me whatever I want soon enough,’ said Hastur, moving closer and filling the air with his uniquely overpowering scent. The kid, Warlock, had made a damn good point upon his acquaintance with the Duke of Hell.

‘So you want information? You could just ask. I can be quite amenable given the right motivation.’

Hastur looked more amused than ever.

‘You really think you’re getting out of this, don’t you? Or perhaps you’re under the impression that I am so focused on you that I have forgotten all about your angel.’

Crowley felt his veneer of calm confidence slip. The prospect of being very slowly discorporated and sent back to face Satan was not one in which he took much comfort but at the back of his mind, beyond the increasingly frenetic attempts to find a way to extricate himself from this very awful situation, there was a solid core of absolute certainty reminding him that Aziraphale was safe. There was no torture on Earth or in Hell that could induce Crowley to betray him. He did not even need to say it out loud.

'Should have been him sitting here,' said Hastur though he did not sound disappointed, 'Michael had her doubts but she was adamant about one thing. She said whichever one of you came, you wouldn't call for the other.'

Crowley felt some grudging respect for Michael, she'd got that right at least. 

'Not that it matters,' said Hastur, 'I don't need you to do anything else but scream.' 

Without further preamble he lowered the nail gun until it was over Crowley’s wrist and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Aziraphale had spent a pleasant day organising the mythology section of the shop. It had become quite dusty back there and after sorting this out with a quick miracle, he had been distracted by some of the more esoteric volumes. The Greek myths were a particular favourite of his and he had lost himself for quite some time in the delightful stories of Achilles, Pandora and the rest. When he looked up, it was to find the shop deserted and the shadows lengthening.

He had not expected Crowley to be gone so long and, as afternoon gave way to evening, he found himself growing rather disconsolate. Clearly the book had turned out to be nothing more than a charlatan’s ruse, no surprise there, but surely Crowley understood his need to check. What kind of purveyor of rare books would he be if he did not follow up on potentially promising leads? Admittedly, he could probably use a mite more discretion and common sense. Perhaps Crowley was letting him know that he had no intention of being sent here, there and everywhere at the whim of Aziraphale’s wishful thinking.

‘Message received,’ muttered Aziraphale as he stroked one of the large purple flowers of what he believed to be Crowley’s favourite plant, ‘Come home now.’

Supper time came and went, and still no Crowley. The table was set for two, a candle unlit on the small table. Aziraphale considered eating alone but the idea of resigning himself to Crowley not being home all night made him leave the kitchen. Crowley hadn’t left him. He wouldn’t. Not like that, without a word, without giving him a chance to understand what was happening. Aziraphale checked the phone again. Nothing. He tried calling Crowley’s mobile again. Straight to voicemail, the two second burst of his voice making Aziraphale press redial without leaving a message. He tried to settle to something productive but ended up staring at his computer screen without even turning the thing on.

They hadn’t argued. Aziraphale had kissed him goodbye, not the kind of kiss he knew Crowley wanted but still, he was trying. He was getting braver each day. The shame was not receding exactly but he was learning to ignore it in favour of the voice that told him love was the answer, always. But maybe his efforts had not been obvious enough. He thought of the previous night and how happy he had been with Crowley lying in his lap. He shouldn’t have answered the phone, it had been such a convenient way to break the tension between them, but maybe Crowley had been hurt by it far worse than he had let on. And then Aziraphale had poured salt in the wound by sending him off to look at the book that had cut across their precious moment. Crowley had not seemed offended but he’d spent millennia hiding things, Aziraphale should have known better than to trust appearances. Misery tugged at every part of him, curving Aziraphale’s spine, lowering his shoulders, making every muscle feel heavy as lead.

A sound. Aziraphale’s head snapped up. He had definitely heard something and it sounded as if it had originated from the next room. Heart leaping, Aziraphale hurried to look for the source of the disturbance but all he found was the sofa, empty and desolate without its favourite occupant, and now lit by a soft blue light. The television had turned itself on somehow. Aziraphale looked around hopefully but he already knew that Crowley was not about to reduce himself to playing poltergeist. Sometimes electrical items malfunctioned. Maybe if the television broke Aziraphale would ask Crowley to pick out a new one. If he wanted to. If he came back.

He was reaching to turn the television off when a figure walked onto the screen. What had been a noticeably stark room was now a room with one incredibly unpleasant looking creature in the centre of it. A very familiar looking unpleasant creature. Aziraphale gasped, stepped backwards, but distance did not diminish the awful reality of the demon Hastur in all his hellish glory being on his television set. Aziraphale was seized by the sudden, ridiculous urge to change the channel.

‘Hastur?’

Hastur inclined his head. There was something wrong with his face but Aziraphale thought he could detect a sardonic smile.

‘Been wondering what’s been keeping your boyfriend, I expect.’

Hastur was idly examining his hand as he spoke, a hand that was discoloured by something that looked a lot like blood. An ice cold blade of fear all but buckled Aziraphale’s knees. He staggered towards the television, touching the screen as if he hoped he might be able to pass right through the glass.

‘Don’t! Don’t hurt him.’

‘Little late for that.’

Hastur’s emotionless delivery was rapidly undoing Aziraphale’s ability to think rationally. He was gripping the television now, hoping someone would tell him what he was supposed to do. He relied on Crowley for the coming up with a plan part of a crisis situation, Crowley who he could neither see nor hear.

‘Crowley? Can you hear me?’

‘He can’t.’

Hastur placed his index finger in his mouth and sucked off the blood. His utter disconnect from the horror he was inflicting suddenly filled Aziraphale with terrible rage.

‘You vile, monstrous aberration! I am going to hunt you down and…’

‘And what? You don’t even know where to look and even if you did, it would only take a moment to send Crowley’s soul to Hell for all eternity where it belongs.’

Aziraphale’s wings had unfolded and now they bent forwards, a protective shield around the television as if they could somehow shield Crowley as well.

‘I’ll give you anything you want,’ he whispered, ‘Anything.’

‘I have what I want,’ said Hastur, ‘This isn’t a ransom demand. It’s more of an added bonus, a suggestion from a colleague.’

‘There has to be something you want. My soul for his, surely an angel is worth more than a…’

Hastur raised an eyebrow, the creature on top of his head shifting a slimy foot to make room. Aziraphale swallowed his words.

‘Please. Please don’t do this. There must be something I can offer you.’

Hastur shook his head, his lopsided smile making him look truly deranged.

‘Back to it then.’

‘Hastur, don’t…’

Aziraphale banged his palms against the dead grey screen, almost knocking the television off its table. He turned it back on, checked every channel. He did not truly believe that Hastur would reappear but it was better than stopping to consider what the Duke of Hell was doing at that very moment. He already had Crowley’s blood on his hands. Crowley might already be…no, NO! He would not allow the thought to cross his mind. Aziraphale abandoned his hopeless search and straightened up. What was he going to do? He needed to get to wherever Crowley was being held, that was the only option. He had the address, he could be there in less than thirty minutes if he flew. He would come up with a proper plan on the way or just figure it out as he went along. Once he saw Crowley he would know exactly what to do.

He had forgotten how cold the wind could be when you got some height, it had been some time since Aziraphale had flown any distance. Mindless of witnesses, he followed the roads, the street lights brightening everything so that it barely felt like night at all. Aziraphale would have liked to see a star at least but the clouds were low and thick, pressing down on him as if Heaven was trying to smother him. He only realised he was crying when his vision began to blur. It was his fault. All of it. Crowley would never have walked into Hastur’s trap if it had not been for him. Aziraphale would have been there in his place and Crowley would have been coming for him, only Crowley would probably have come for him hours ago and they would already be somewhere safe. All the time Aziraphale had wasted on self-pity when Crowley had needed him. It felt like something he should have known.

He was getting closer now, time to pull himself together. Aziraphale had not thought to bring a weapon though nothing in the bookshop really qualified. In any case, anything that would work on Hastur would put Crowley in danger too. Better to go in as he was and hope for the best.

The building was easy enough to find and even easier to break into. Aziraphale raced up the stairs with no thought to how much noise he was making. Let Hastur hear him and come out to face him. The foul fiend had no idea what damage righteous fury could unleash, much as Aziraphale had previously had no experience of how fast running into room after empty room could break your fighting spirit. Next one, Crowley would be in the next one. Aziraphale burst through door after door until, finally, he almost fell into a large, bare room in which a tiny table was the only adornment. He was about to leave when something caught his eye. On the table, in the exact centre of the grey surface, was a single black feather. Aziraphale’s own wings gave a reciprocal flutter as he drew closer. It was undamaged, perfect, but there was something about the energy it was giving off that made his hand tremble as he reached for it. No sooner had he touched it than a roaring tide of pain brought him to his knees as a scream tore through the air, a scream that did not come from him. His hand closing convulsively around the feather, Aziraphale began to cry in earnest.

* * *

Somewhere not too far away, Crowley was staring up at the ceiling. It seemed like a good thing to do, the only thing, when you had thirty three nails pinning your arms to your chair. At least this way he couldn’t see them and that probably lessened the pain by at least half a degree. He had tried as hard as he could not to give Hastur what he wanted. He thought he might have made it to twelve before the pain had shot through any ability to be quiet about it. He was pretty sure he was still whimpering a bit now but Hastur had left the room so it didn’t count. He should probably have been trying to escape but the odds of that happening were now so vanishingly small that Crowley decided on balance it was better to keep absolutely still.

He was already looking up, and he certainly needed help, so it did not seem at all strange to him to start talking to God. He had never stopped talking to Her, not for long anyway. Even after millennia of being utterly ignored, Crowley still kept hold of the faith that She was there and that She might even, very deep down, still care.

‘I know you can hear me.’

He closed his eyes for a moment because it hurt, it fucking hurt, and it was hard to organise his thoughts into anything more than an incoherent whine. He needed God to listen to him this time and if he had any chance of getting Her on side She was going to need some actual words to work with. When he opened his eyes again he put all his effort into an all too likely misguided attempt to maintain a connection with the divine.

‘Listen to me, please. I need your help. Not for me, I know you’re not coming for me. But you come through for angels, right? You’ll come through for him.’

Crowley tried to imagine what form Her help might take but gave up.

‘Keep Aziraphale away from here, keep him away from me. Tell him to let me go. Tell him I’m not afraid. Tell him…tell him I love him. And it was worth it, all of it. Just keep him safe. Please.’

Footsteps alerted him to Hastur’s return and Crowley let the connection go.

‘Who are you talking to?’

Hastur came into view, his eyes raking the room suspiciously.

‘Oh, you know, God.’

Hastur made a disbelieving sound and continued scanning the room as if he thought someone might be hiding from him somehow. Crowley let him indulge his paranoia. Unfortunately it did not last nearly long enough.

‘No one here. Oh dear, Crowley, cracking up a bit, are we?’

Hastur was in his element. Any moment now he was going to start kissing the nail gun as a way of thanking it for its good work.

‘Nothing smart to say?’ Hastur smirked, ‘Finally found a way to shut you up.’

‘You could have tried asking nicely.’

Hastur acknowledged this with a shrug.

‘Not my style.’

With a smile of purest enjoyment, he lowered the nail gun and Crowley did not even try not to scream.


	5. A Strip Club On Earth

Aziraphale had spent hours trying to persuade Crowley’s feather to rejoin its fellows and lead him to the owner of the most beautiful wings in the universe, but no matter what he tried the feather remained just as he had found it, still and inert. Cut off from its source, it seemed determined to abandon Crowley just as Aziraphale had. Full of terrible, overwhelming feelings with nowhere to go, Aziraphale destroyed and brought it back so many times that it was no longer surprising that it refused to do as he bid. Abandoning this doomed plan of action, but not the feather itself which he slipped into his pocket, Aziraphale returned to the bookshop. It was not a considered move.

Crowley’s plants were exactly as he had left them. There was a pair of his glasses next to the till. The places Aziraphale had set at the table the night before were gathering dust at the table. Everything else was as it had always been. Aziraphale saw it all with fresh eyes, the books on the shelves, the stacks of unread newspapers, the clutter of ornaments, souvenirs and oddities on every shelf and surface. Almost every item was his, he had barely made space for Crowley in his life at all. Picking up the glasses and walking through to the back room, Aziraphale turned them over and over in his hands as he sought a way to give them an after, a time where he could make amends and do everything the way it should have been done from the start. No more shame, no more hiding, no more pushing Crowley away. He had assumed they had forever, that there was time to waste. He had been making the same mistake over and over since the beginning.

Aziraphale had already tried every miracle he could think of but Hastur, it seemed, had found ways to counter every attempt he made to find Crowley or join him. He might have been anywhere in London, anywhere on the planet or maybe Hastur had already taken him back down to Hell. This thought made Aziraphale want to lie down on the floor and plead with the Devil to take him too. It was an option. Pleading might not gain him admittance but he could simply try the main entrance. Crowley had never been secretive about how to access it, no doubt assuming that Aziraphale would never have reason to go there. And if he went to Hell, what then? He could turn himself over in exchange for Crowley’s release. He’d already tried with Hastur but perhaps other demons would have a different view of things. Hastur’s persecution of Crowley did seem to be particularly personal. Aziraphale might be able to make a more compelling case to Beelzebub for example.

‘Are you insane?’ Crowley’s voice spoke from inside Aziraphale’s head, angry in that way he got whenever he was really frightened. ‘Don’t even think about it, angel. I’m warning you.’

‘I have to do something!’

‘No, you don’t.’

Aziraphale shook his head, trying to clear it. It would be just like Crowley to sacrifice himself if he saw no other way out.

‘Hell won’t bargain with you. If you walk in there, neither one of us is ever getting out.’

‘Fine!’

This left one option. If there was no hope of mercy from Hell, then Aziraphale was left with the just as unlikely option of seeking assistance from Heaven. Gabriel, who, according to Crowley, had politely requested that he step into a plume of hellfire and die, was not going to be pleased to see him. Less so when he heard what Aziraphale had ascended to ask. But there was a chance, wasn’t there? Time to go before his mind had the opportunity to conjure any one of the many vigorous arguments Crowley would no doubt have attempted if he had the slightest inkling that Aziraphale was about to do something so stupid.

As Aziraphale made his way across the city, he noticed little things. One of the first commuters, up to catch the first train of the day, was scattering toast crumbs for the pigeons as she walked. Someone else was carrying a reusable coffee mug decorated with a rainbow. A rat paused on the pavement, taking advantage of the last few minutes of quiet to give itself a quick groom. If they had been walking together, he would have pointed all of these things out to Crowley. For such a long time, he had only had Crowley to share things with, someone who listened. Maybe he rolled his eyes a bit too often and got impatient when Aziraphale ran away with a foolish idea or got distracted, but Crowley remembered the things he was told. And he came back for more.

Aziraphale stopped walking, leaning on a lamppost for support. What was he doing? Gabriel had never listened to him, not even when he had very important things to tell him about the end of the world. The only thing he would get in Heaven was scorn, derision and mockery. The same thing he’d been served by fellow angels all his life and told to be grateful for. His hands were balling into fists. No angel was going to risk disobeying orders to save the soul of a demon. There was no one left to help him, nowhere to turn. Shaking, Aziraphale was perilously close to revealing his true and terrible self in the middle of London. 

‘You alright, mate?’

A lycra clad man had stopped his bicycle to check on the quite-clearly-not-okay person on the pavement who looked as if he might be about to have a heart attack.

‘Fine,’ said Aziraphale, turning away, ‘I’m just…’

A neon sign was blinking on and off in the window before him. It was a hairdresser’s sign, a pair of scissors blinking fluorescent blue before cutting out every few seconds. It meant nothing and yet it had awakened a memory.

They had been driving in the Bentley. Crowley had picked him up, his mood particularly buoyant after taking credit for the current stock market crash. Aziraphale had felt duty bound to point out that brokers had taken their own lives as a result of the dip in the market which had prompted Crowley to remind him that taking credit and actually doing the thing were entirely different. Their conversation had struggled to pick up again after that and they had been driving for quite a while in silence when Crowley nodded over to a building on the right.

‘I saw Michael in there once.’

Aziraphale had been speared instantly by what he could recognise now as intense jealousy.

‘Michael? Who’s Michael?’

‘Archangel Michael.’

‘Oh, that Michael!’

As there was no way Crowley was having any kind of interactions, romantic or otherwise, with an Archangel, Aziraphale had relaxed.

‘Not interested in why she might be in a strip club on Earth then?’

‘A _strip_ club!’

Aziraphale remembered Crowley laughing at him then, and even though he should have been embarrassed that his prudishness had met with such a reception, it had been so lovely to hear him laugh.

‘No, I don’t believe it. You’re winding me up. Anyway, what were _you_ doing in a…in one of those places?’

‘I get orders, I follow them. Well, not strictly true in many cases but in this one, yes. I was told to meet someone there and I swear to you, right at the front by the stage, was old Michael.’

‘It must have been someone who looked like her.’

‘Right, because I’m always mixing up regular human beings and Archangels. Look, there’s another one!’

Crowley had continued spotlighting perfectly ordinary people until Aziraphale had said, ‘You’ve made your point. But why though? Why would Michael be somewhere like that?’

Crowley had shrugged.

‘It’s a pretty popular meeting spot for my lot. We sort of blend in.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That demons look like…’

‘With regards to Michael…’

‘Oh, nothing really. Just thought it was interesting.’

It was interesting. Very interesting. Aziraphale straightened up, his reflection in the shop front window growing taller. Michael. He had never even considered appealing to her but now that he thought about it she was the obvious choice. She had a proven affinity with demons. At the very least she might be able to provide him with a useful back channel to Hell or be able to suggest something that they might want in exchange for Crowley’s life. And now he had a way of finding someone who might know how to get a message to her. His spirits soaring, Aziraphale wasted no time retracing the route they had taken that day in the Bentley. He could narrow it down to a certain area at least and then he had to hope that the strip club in question was still operational, which did not seem too unlikely if demons considered it to be a useful meeting place. Demons and the Archangel Michael. No time to make sense of things, he simply had to act.

Even at eight in the morning, with all of its signs unlit, the grubby cheapness of the building made it stand out from its neighbours. Aziraphale had not expected to find the club open and sure enough the front entrance was locked. He made his way round the back. It would be best to be as discrete about his approach as possible, just in case there were any demons lurking in wait. If demons did indeed frequent the establishment, they had not thought to protect the exit. Piles of rubbish and a puddle of something suspect were the only deterrents. Gaining entry by use of a quick miracle, Aziraphale entered the dark building and began to work his way through dingy corridors. Badly framed photographs hung unevenly on the walls, each one depicting women and men in various states of undress. There did not seem to be anyone around but Aziraphale moved quietly nonetheless, feeling prickles on the back of his neck. 

After a few minutes he found himself in the main foyer. There were two double doors ahead of him that Aziraphale assumed would lead him through to the main staging area. It did not seem likely that there would be anyone in there but with no better ideas, he pushed the doors open. The music hit him like a wall of sound. Inside the stage was lit, the audience in place. Clearly time here was meaningless. On the semi-circular stage three women and two men, sporting no more than the skimpiest of underclothing, writhed and cavorted. Each one of them wore a headdress designed to make them look like most human’s interpretation of a demon and one even had a plastic forked tail attached to a thin belt around his waist. Watching their dancing, though Aziraphale was loathe to use the term, was a sizeable audience of humans and at least twenty demons. At least they _had_ been watching. When the doors had opened, those at the nearest tables had turned to view the intruder. The dancers had noticed something was wrong too, their movements slowing leading to more heads turning, more eyes settling upon Aziraphale framed in the doorway. He had made a somewhat disastrous miscalculation but there was no other plan and he doubted he would have got very far if he’d tried to run for it anyway. So he stepped forwards.

‘I came to see Michael.’

A ripple travelled through the audience, a smattering of laughter. The tension in the air was building and Aziraphale was not being taken seriously. With a snap of his wings, every light in the place exploded, the dancers and some of the other humans screaming as the staging began to spark. The only light came from Aziraphale himself now and no one was laughing.

‘I don’t like to repeat myself,’ he said, ‘So let’s make this the last time. Where is Michael?’

The stunned silence was broken by a slow clap, the kind made by a single pair of hands.

‘Such drama,’ said Michael, standing up from a table right in front of the stage. She had been shielded from him by a group of four hulking great demons. They were flanking her now like bodyguards. ‘Honestly, Aziraphale, I didn’t think you had it in you.’

With a click of her fingers, the lights were back on. Another click and the humans in the room had frozen. The demons, unaffected by Michael’s powers, shifted restlessly. Aziraphale saw their eyes dart to Michael and then back to him as if they were waiting for orders, as if she was in charge. 

‘Are you requesting a private audience, Aziraphale? Or are you going to explain to everyone why you have so rudely interrupted…?’

‘Crowley.’

The name made quite a few of the demons shudder and look more insistently at Michael who raised her eyebrows.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s in trouble.’

Michael considered him for a moment and then leaned towards the nearest demon whose skin looked as if it was melting and whispered something into his ear. Straightening up, she glared at Aziraphale before turning on her heels and marching briskly through a side exit he had not noticed. Assuming he was to follow, Aziraphale ignored the many pairs of demonic eyes watching him until he was out of sight.

Michael was waiting for him in a dressing room complete with lit mirrors and discarded clothing. Melting Face was in the corner, a cigarette protruding from his mouth. The smell of the smoke in the confined space made Aziraphale feel nauseous. It was one thing knowing that Michael had contacts in Hell but quite another to see her quite brazenly comfortable in a demon's company. Was this how everyone else in Heaven felt about him being around Crowley?

‘Quite a performance in there,’ said Michael, ‘Brave of you, in a way. You realise of course that Crowley is now an enemy of Hell. Mentioning his name could have consequences.’

Aziraphale faced her down, undaunted by her warnings.

‘Hastur has him. He’s being tortured.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Michael, coolly, ‘Hastur has had rather a rough time of it since you both saw fit to cancel Armageddon. I can’t say I blame him for getting a bit of revenge. You want him to stop, I take it?’

‘Yes, immediately.’

Michael considered him for a few moments.

‘And what do you propose to offer in return?’

Aziraphale had come without a plan and he thought, when this question was asked, that he would struggle to come up with anything worth parting with but the solution dropped into his mind like a stone. It was the only thing he had to trade that might make Heaven cooperate. Crowley would never forgive him, but Crowley was the reason he was doing any of this and if it saved him it would be worth it. 

‘My wings.’

There was a sharp intake of breath and Melting Face began to cough on his own smoke. Michael dismissed him with a look before turning her sharp eyes back to Aziraphale.

‘You would give up being an angel to save a demon?’

Aziraphale thought of how Crowley could not get out of bed some days, how hard he had fought to keep hold of his goodness when Hell was always there to snatch it away from him, how he had never forgiven himself for Falling, how he had loved Aziraphale for so long and never expected to be loved in return.

He thought of Heaven – white, echoing, the whispers of bullies never far away – and he thought of standing trial as Crowley in Hell. Aziraphale did not want to do this, he wanted to go back home and put on some Mozart, take a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets off the shelf and one too many biscuits from the tin. He wanted to be back home in his small, safe life but none of it made sense without Crowley. Nothing made sense without him.

‘I would do anything for him.’

Michael pushed herself away from the wall, her guarded expression giving way to excitement.

‘You realise what this means, of course. You would be Fallen. You could never come back.' 

Aziraphale nodded, his neck so stiff that it hurt.

‘I’d have to persuade Her,’ Michael continued, talking more to herself now, ‘But that has never been difficult and with your track record…yes, I think we could get things arranged very speedily indeed.’

There was a lump growing in Aziraphale’s throat, his breathing decidedly faster than it had been a few seconds ago. Crowley was trying to speak inside his head but Aziraphale pushed him away, he’d had so much practice that it was depressingly easy.

‘I’d like…could I have a bit of time? With Crowley, I mean. Before.’

If only Crowley had explained in a bit more detail the whole Falling process, maybe then Aziraphale would have some idea how long it might take to find his way back to him. They would find each other again, Aziraphale had to believe that, but he was not as strong as Crowley, not as determined, not as brave, it might take him a lot longer to heal enough to resist whatever Hell threw at him.

‘I’m not sure you’re really in much of a position to dictate terms,' said Michael, 'But I suppose Crowley might already be discorporated. You might be doing all this for absolutely nothing. If he’s already with Satan, there’s nothing I can do. Alright, I need some time to plant the seeds of the idea with the Almighty anyway, how about a fortnight from right this moment?’

Two weeks. It was the blink of an eye. All the things Aziraphale had hoped to do with Crowley one day and he would have to fit as many as possible into a meagre two weeks. The contract was in Michael’s hand already, the ink shining as it dried.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll sign.’

Aziraphale’s signature shone a bright shimmering gold. The last thing he remembered was Michael’s triumphant, unholy smile and then everything dissolved.


	6. Wake Up

_Queen_ was playing.

Someone was crying.

Everything hurt.

Crowley drifted between different levels of consciousness, aware of thoughts only briefly as they shone like flares in the darkness. He may not have been human but even for a demon recovery from an ordeal took time. And frankly, Crowley had had enough of reality. He was in no hurry to wake.

Burbage was over-acting on stage at the Globe.

Someone else was reading just the funny plays, the best ones.

A hand was squeezing his while a voice whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

In the end it was not pain or a voice or a memory that woke him but a physical feeling. There was an unfamiliar weight on his chest, it had been there for a while, and Crowley was struggling to understand what was happening. He tried to ignore it but the part of him that was afraid of what might be coming next kept him from being able to turn his attention away. He was getting the sense that someone was touching him and the unease this provoked was bringing him closer to the surface of things. His eyes opened without his consent and immediately closed again. Too bright. He may have hissed. Everything was taking a very long time to connect to his brain.

‘Crowley?’

The weight on his chest lifted. Crowley kept his eyes closed. If it wasn’t him, he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He would simply discorporate right there and then and be done with it.

‘Crowley, please wake up. Please.’

Aziraphale’s voice broke and Crowley launched himself violently into the world like someone who had not been tortured for the best part of twenty four hours. Which, in hindsight, was not the wisest decision he’d ever made.

‘Fuck!’

Pain was rocketing at him from all sides, making him forget what he had been trying to do and who he had been trying to get to, and then Aziraphale appeared above him, his bright blonde hair a halo. There was an expression on his face that Crowley had never seen there before, a fierce blazing intensity that was a little frightening and a lot…something else. Crowley was not sure whether it was his own resolve or Aziraphale’s radiance that drove the pain back down to a manageable level.

‘Hello, angel.’

Aziraphale frowned down at him in a way that made Crowley wonder what he’d done wrong but before he could work out what he might have done to incur such displeasure, Aziraphale’s expression changed to one of absolute determination.

‘Right,’ he said, as if a decision had been made, and then he did the very last thing Crowley would have expected. Aziraphale leaned over and kissed him.

More than a little disorientated, Crowley was barely a participant and could only make a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan when they broke apart. Speech was utterly beyond him.

‘Sorry,’ said Aziraphale, high spots of colour flaming on his face, ‘Couldn’t resist. I’ve missed you.’

‘Huh.’

It was hardly the seductive rejoinder that Crowley might have preferred but it worked well enough to earn him a smile.

‘How are you feeling?’

Crowley paused to consider. Thoroughly fucking confused for a start, more than a little turned on and, oh yeah, in low grade agony.

‘Er, fine.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Aziraphale, ‘Well, you’ve been out for almost a week so take it very slowly. Is there anything I can get you? Tea? Cocoa? Whisky?’

Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s earnest face. He had so many questions. Made sense to start with the most important one.

‘Did you just kiss me?’

Aziraphale’s blush deepened but he looked quite pleased with himself. His eyes were brighter than normal, something in them not quite matching the rest of his expression.

‘Yes, I did, and I intend to do so again as soon as I have a better picture of how you are.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Crowley again, quite happy to ignore any evidence to the contrary, ‘So how about now?’

It was worth a try.

‘I really think I should…’ Aziraphale began, his worried expression so achingly familiar that Crowley could not help smiling. ‘Oh, alright then. But I really am going to examine you after this.’

‘Examine away,’ said Crowley, still smiling right up until the moment their lips met. Aziraphale kissed him softly, tasting of honey and tea and heaven, and there was nothing Crowley wanted but this. When he began to pull away, Crowley tried to move with him but the movement sent lightning through his spine forcing him back down.

‘Oh no!’ said Aziraphale, any pleasure he might have taken from the kiss already gone from his face, ‘I knew I shouldn’t have…here, let me…’

He laid his hands on Crowley’s chest. Warmth and light flooded in, the relief of it immediate. Sleep was beckoning him back under but Crowley fought against it.

‘Angel…’

‘It’s okay. I’ll be right here when you wake, I promise.’

Crowley did not want to give in yet, he still had questions, but Aziraphale’s eyes were softly pleading with him. Maybe sleep was not such a bad idea after all. There was a lot he did not want to remember yet, and the taste of Aziraphale was still on his lips, so letting go was not difficult. Aziraphale would be there when he woke. He had promised.

It was darker and colder the next time he woke, both of which he could tell without opening his eyes. There was a burning sensation down both of his forearms, the feeling of skin and muscle and bone attempting to knit back together and struggling. The pain of it grew more insistent the moment Crowley realised it was there. It was, in a word, unpleasant. Reluctantly, he resigned himself to the inevitable and opened his eyes to find himself alone.

‘Aziraphale?’

There was no answer, no sudden movement to indicate that he was just out of sight. Crowley waited as long as he could bear to, a precise seven seconds, before forcing himself to sit up. It hurt. A lot. Crowley hissed it out, flashes of memory reminding him exactly how he had got into this state in the first place. The desire to melt Hastur from existence was not yet able to out compete the desire to find a certain duplicitous angel and demand some fucking comfort.

Staggering out of bed, Crowley gripped the door frame for support. There were bandages down both of his arms and something very wrong with the rest of him. If someone had informed him that his bones had been replaced with sharpened spikes while he slept he would not have questioned it. Some reflex made him look round for his glasses, but it was only Aziraphale who was going to see him like this, and searching would have taken too much out of him anyway. His assumption was that it was past dinner time and Aziraphale had gone downstairs to get himself something to eat.

‘Why couldn’t you eat in the bedroom?’ Crowley would ask him to which Aziraphale would reply, shocked, ‘Eat? In a _bedroom_? I couldn’t possibly!’ or something along those lines.

Crowley was planning on holding onto his annoyance for as long as it took for Aziraphale to kiss him again. Imagining how things would play out was the only thing making it possible for him to put one foot in front of the other but when he got to the stairs, he found himself staring down them. There were so very many of them. He didn’t remember there being so many. Crowley, who had not blinked for several minutes, did so now and was awakened to the previously unnoticed but obvious fact that there were no lights on downstairs. He turned, instinctively, to the nearest source of light, surprised to find it coming from underneath the bathroom door.

When he was close enough, he touched his fingertips to the wood and heard a whispered voice on the other side. Aziraphale was speaking so quickly that the words were tripping over one another but his intent was unmistakeable, Crowley recognised a prayer when he heard one. Pushing the door open, he saw Aziraphale on his knees on the bath mat, his head bent over clasped hands.

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale jumped, bolting upright with a look of pure horror.

‘What are you doing up? You’re going to undo all the work I’ve had to do to get you this far!’

Crowley objected to being scolded when he had been hoping for pretty much the exact opposite but his customary snarky reaction was tempered by the unnerving sight of tear tracks glistening on Aziraphale’s cheeks. Praying and crying.

‘Angel…’

‘No, I don’t want to hear it,’ said Aziraphale, as if it had been Crowley caught doing something strange rather than him, ‘Back to bed.’

He fussed around for a while after that, insisting on tea and then making a performance out of lighting candles and adjusting the blankets. Crowley let him get on with it, biding his time. If Aziraphale thought he could fuss his way out of an explanation then he did not know who he was dealing with. You didn’t just throw words up to God for no good reason, and if there was a reason to be getting upset and casting yourself at the mercy of the Almighty then Crowley wanted to know about it.

‘There,’ said Aziraphale, taking a seat beside the bed at last, ‘Much better. I could read to you if you like or I could bring the television in here. No, that’s not...too much stimulation...better to…’

His agitation was making him twitchy, he could hardly keep still. Any moment he would make an excuse and leave, and Crowley did not have the strength to follow.

‘I think we need to talk about what happened.’

‘Do we?’ Naked fear danced across Aziraphale’s face as he shook his head. ‘I don’t think we…’

‘Look at me,’ said Crowley but Aziraphale only glanced at him. There were fresh tears in his eyes and his lower lip had begun to tremble.

‘You saved me,’ said Crowley. It was such an obvious thing to say but the words felt fragile, like they might blow away and stop being true. ‘You did it, angel.’

A tear fell followed rapidly by another and the sight of Aziraphale crying made Crowley want to tear a hole in the fabric of the universe just so he could go back and stop whatever it was from upsetting him.

‘What’s wrong?’

Aziraphale wiped his eyes with quick, rough gestures. He was trying to pull himself together, burying everything deep down the way Crowley had seen him do countless times before.

‘Talk to me. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Aziraphale murmured, still trying to compose himself, ‘I’m being foolish.’

Crowley reached out to him, trying not to let the sight of Aziraphale’s eyelashes made spiky by tears undo him any more than it already had. Aziraphale took his hand in both of his and then sank down so that his forehead was pressed against Crowley's wrist. He was trembling, whatever he was holding inside him desperate to come out. He whispered something so quietly that Crowley did not catch it.

‘What?’

Aziraphale shuddered and then his words erupted from him in a miserable wail.

‘I thought I’d lost you!

‘But you didn’t,’ said Crowley, ignoring the pain and half sitting up so he could grasp Aziraphale’s forearm with his free hand, ‘I’m here.’

‘I thought I was too late,’ said Aziraphale, talking over him, ‘I thought I’d got it all wrong. I had to take all of those nails out of you. And you wouldn’t wake up, no matter what I did. I thought I was going to run out of time…I thought you were…’

‘I’m sorry, angel.’

Crowley thought it was the right thing to say but Aziraphale began to cry harder than ever. 

‘Don’t, don’t say that. It’s my fault, all of it. You should never have been there. And if you’d…’

His next words were lost, his crying having reached such an intensity that he could not make himself understood. Crowley, perilously close to crying himself at the sight of his angel in such distress, attempted to pull Aziraphale onto the bed with him. There was no resistance and Aziraphale allowed himself to be guided into place so that he was now crying onto Crowley’s chest.

‘I can’t live without you,’ he sobbed, face pressed into the black silk of Crowley’s pyjamas.

‘You don’t have to, I’m here.’

‘You could have been destroyed.’

‘But I wasn’t.’

‘And I’ve never even told you that I love you.’

Crowley opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. Aziraphale was holding him so tight it should have hurt. He had stopped crying but his breathing hitched on every inhale.

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he whispered, ‘And I thought about all the things I hoped we’d get to do one day, all the things we could have had if it wasn’t for me. It would have been all my fault, Crowley. All the things we missed. All the things I denied you.’

‘Angel…’

‘It’s true.’ Aziraphale raised his head. His gaze was watery, his face shining with tears. ‘I love you.’

Their kiss was salty with the taste of loss narrowly averted.

‘I love you,’ Aziraphale said again, ‘And I won’t ever let a day go by without saying it, not ever again.’

‘Okay then,’ said Crowley because saying ‘ _this is absolutely worth almost being cast into Hell and if I’d known this was going to happen I might have even bloody volunteered’_ might have made Aziraphale start crying again. But it _was_ worth it, all the same, and he hoped Aziraphale understood.

Over the next few days Crowley started to feel more and more of his strength returning. He took the bandages off against Aziraphale’s advice and spent quite some time studying the various scars that were already starting to fade. Aziraphale could not bear to look at them and would not come in the room until he had rolled his sleeves back down. He made a ridiculous fuss of him when Crowley made it downstairs for breakfast, tossing pancakes all over the place, not one of them making it back in the pan as intended. Not that it mattered, Crowley was perfectly happy with coffee and the sight of Aziraphale in a lacy apron trying to crack eggs the way humans did. He tried, whenever Aziraphale paused in offering him things, making suggestions or generally treating him as if he was an invalid who could not think for himself, to ask what had actually happened. He had no memory of Aziraphale coming to save him which was deeply unfortunate. Crowley had visions of him going full Avenging Angel and to not remember was criminal somehow. Aziraphale, however, remained hazy on the details.

‘Oh, you know…’

‘I don’t, that’s why I’m asking.’

‘It’s all a bit of a blur.’

‘Well, let’s start with how you found me.’

‘It was the feather!’ Aziraphale was very definite and strangely delighted by this detail. ‘Your feather. It was left behind in that awful building and after a bit of persuasion it led me to you.’

He even produced the feather as proof, stroking it fondly and placing it on the mantelpiece amidst his other treasures. Crowley had no reason to doubt that he was being told the truth, except if Aziraphale had found the feather at the address he had known to look first, why had it taken so long for him to be rescued? Not that he wasn’t grateful but he could have done without the nail gun to the spine. His delicate enquiries into the timing of things was met with more vagueness.

‘There were a few obstacles to overcome. Weapons to collect, that sort of thing. Do we have to talk about this? I thought we could do something else instead.’

Invariably this meant sidling up to Crowley and doing something that would make all the difficult and unwelcome questions fly from his mind because really, how was he meant to think with Aziraphale’s arms around his waist? There were more kisses too, delicate kisses on the forehead, long lingering kisses on the mouth which made everything feel dreamlike, and light kisses trailing down his neck which left Crowley unable to collect his thoughts again for most of the day. It should have been wonderful and it was, but there was no denying that it was also very suspicious. For Crowley had begun to notice the way Aziraphale relied on this form of distraction and how, on the few occasions it was unsuccessful, he would physically remove himself from the conversation and leave the room. Flouncing off on one occasion.

‘I just don’t like talking about it, Crowley. I don’t even want to think about it.’

Which did make sense. As much as Aziraphale loved to talk, it was often talk without purpose. He was much more likely to talk around a difficult subject rather than address it directly. Shaken up by Crowley’s near demise, Aziraphale was coping the only way he knew how, by shutting down the part of him that had been scared to death and pretending that everything was tip top, just fine and dandy, thank you very much, so let’s have tea and stop bringing it up, shall we?

Crowley had a finely tuned sense of how far to push Aziraphale before he would run, and he knew he was fast approaching the point of no return. So Crowley did what he almost always did when there was a choice to make between what he wanted and what Aziraphale could take, he denied his own needs and stopped asking questions. And he had to admit, he was a big fan of how Aziraphale chose to express his gratitude.

‘We should go for a walk,’ Aziraphale announced. He had been watching the street outside for several minutes. Crowley had assumed he had been about to open the shop for the first time in almost two weeks but maintaining a functioning business as cover had apparently slipped very low on his list of priorities. 

‘I thought you said I wasn’t to even think about leaving the shop until you had given your express permission.’

‘I’m giving it now. It’s a beautiful day and you certainly look well enough for some fresh air. It would do us both good.’

Crowley remained where he was.

‘Not sure I’m in the mood for a walk. A drive on the other hand…’

Aziraphale was going to shoot him down and tell him it was much too dangerous, that he was reckless on the road and look what happened last time. He was never going to agree.

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, a little absently, ‘Yes, a drive.’ He stared wistfully out of the window for a moment longer. ‘I would love that.’

Aziraphale had rescued the Bentley but only after Crowley had, quite nervously, enquired as to its health. Fortunately, Hastur, viscous and loathsome bastard that he was, had not thought to do any damage to it and the engine purred as reliably as ever the moment Crowley turned the key. He waited for Aziraphale to ask him not to go too fast but he was already staring out of the window, seatbelt securing him in place.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You choose.’

Crowley hooked a pair of glasses out of the glove compartment and put them on. If he was going to be shooting concerned, covert glances over at Aziraphale during the journey they would make the process a lot easier.

With considerable effort, Crowley restrained himself to going just over the designated speed limit, unwilling to upset an already fragile Aziraphale. They were out of London, the trees around them various shades of green, copper and gold, when Crowley risked a question.

‘You okay, angel?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Aziraphale blinked around at the unfamiliar landscape. ‘Do you think we could stop soon?’

‘Sure.’

‘We could have a picnic.’

‘Definitely.’

The clouds up ahead looked ominous but they’d dealt with rain before. It could even be romantic, reminiscent of the day they had met. Crowley looked over at Aziraphale and wondered if a reminder of Eden would go down as intended. Chewing his lip, Aziraphale looked as if he had other things on his mind.

Pulling the Bentley over into a deserted car park screened by trees, Crowley cut the engine. Aziraphale continued to stare straight ahead, seatbelt locked in.

‘Aziraphale?’

Aziraphale swallowed, nodded and then, as an afterthought, smiled.

‘Let’s go then.’

There was no one else around. Crowley had not performed any miracles, Aziraphale had asked him not to while he was still recovering, so either this was not a particularly popular walking destination or Aziraphale was working some magic of his own. Admittedly the weather was less than promising. There were spots of rain falling on them already and the wind was stronger than it had been in the city. Aziraphale, however, strode up the path ahead so purposefully that Crowley had to hurry to catch him up. Slipping his hand into Aziraphale’s, just because he could, Crowley was glad they were outside. The bookshop had started to feel like the only safe place in the world which was ridiculous because Aziraphale had dealt with Hastur. No more threat there. Crowley had been working hard on believing this for days but he did not have a whole lot to work with.

‘Angel?’

‘Shall we see what the view is like at the top of this hill?’

The view turned out to be of the motorway they had just driven down. The noise of the cars and the way the road cut straight through what must have once been pristine countryside made Crowley feel ever so slightly guilty. The M25 had not done the area many favours.

‘Crowley…’

‘Yes, I know. If I could go back and do things differently I would but really, it’s a lot harder to come up with ways to appease Hell than it looks. They weren’t all that impressed by this, to be honest. Hastur didn’t have a clue what I was on about.’

Aziraphale made a sad little choking sound, like a forced laugh gone wrong.

‘Shouldn’t have mentioned him, sorry. He’s been taken care of now though, right? No need for either of us to be worried.’

Aziraphale sniffed.

‘Right, angel?’

Crowley could feel a cold dread creeping over him which had nothing to do with the weather. His fingers slipped from Aziraphale’s grip.

‘What did happen to Hastur?’

Aziraphale, who had been staring at the motorway in the distance, turned to look at him. There was no mask in place, no false cheer or distraction. He looked as terrified as Crowley had ever seen him.

‘I don’t know.’

Crowley felt something solid and dependable inside him start to wobble.

‘Yes, you do,’ he said, willing the truth to change, needing it to, ‘You do because you were the one that did it.’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I wasn’t even there. I didn’t save you, Crowley. I asked for help and I…’

‘Help?’ Crowley pronounced the word like he had no idea what it meant. ‘Who would help?’

Aziraphale faltered, his gaze flickered upwards and then quickly back again.

‘I went to Michael.’

The name caused lightning to split the sky as Crowley momentarily lost control of his power.

He reeled away from Aziraphale, the aftershock of his confession testing all the parts of him that were still healing. It couldn’t have been Michael. Not her. Not when she was the one who had set the trap. But Aziraphale did not know that, he had not let Crowley talk about it. Rage was filling him like fire, rage and a terrible, bone deep fear. He rounded on Aziraphale, showing only the anger.

‘What did you do?’

Aziraphale’s own terror leapt up to meet his own.

‘I didn’t know how else to save you. There was no one else!’

‘What did you do?’

Aziraphale’s focus was darting between both of Crowley’s eyes but Crowley was unmoved by his panic. There was enough sense in him to know that if Aziraphale had known about Michael’s betrayal of him in Heaven or if he had even suspected she had anything to do with his abduction he would never have sought her out. She must have seemed the logical choice in many ways, just as she had no doubt intended. Whatever she wanted, she must have it or Crowley would still be dying slowly by Hastur's hand. 

‘Crowley…’

Aziraphale wanted to talk him down to a calm place but calm required something constant, something unchanging, something he loved.

‘WHAT DID YOU DO, AZIRAPHALE?’

Crowley’s shout echoed across the fields below them and made every tree within fifty miles quake. Aziraphale had the audacity to look as if the betrayal were happening to him. He stumbled over his words.

‘I made a deal with her, with Michael. To save you.’

The clouds overhead had darkened to steel and when Crowley’s wings snapped open, a deep rumble of thunder began to echo through the sky.

‘What did you give her?’

Aziraphale still looked terribly frightened but there was resignation creeping in now too. He’d had days to make this confession and now the moment was upon him. With a glorious sweeping motion his wings spread out behind him and Crowley knew.

‘I promised her my wings. I told her I’d Fall if she saved you.’

Everything went quiet. The wind died, the thunder muted, the sound of the traffic extinguished. Crowley could hear nothing but Aziraphale’s breathing, short and sharp, across the clearing.

‘It was worth it,’ he said, ‘I got you back. If I had to I’d…’

Crowley made a sharp upwards motion with his right hand and all the trees around them burst into flames.

‘Crowley…’

‘No.’

‘Crowley, please…’

‘No, you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t have agreed to that.’

‘It was the only thing I could think of,’ said Aziraphale, desperately, as if this was somehow an adequate defence, as if it somehow made things better that Michael hadn’t even had to suggest it.

‘When?’

Aziraphale swallowed. In the gloom of the storm, his wings shone star bright.

‘Tomorrow. 8:03am.’

Less than a day. They had less than a single day. Crowley looked up at the threatening sky and bared his teeth. It was a furious relief to have someone else to blame.

‘ _You_. You did this. Fuck you! I love him more than I ever loved you!’

‘Crowley!’

Aziraphale’s shock at his blasphemy only served to stoke the fire inside him.

‘What?’ Crowley spat, more snake in him than there had been for millennia, ‘What more can She do to me if She’s taking you?’

Aziraphale had no reply to that and Crowley had nothing more to say to him. It was painful to look upon him, to know that he wanted absolution for a decision that would damn him to an eternity without it.

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley ended the storm, extinguished the trees and was gone.


	7. The Last Day

Aziraphale did not know how he made it back down the path. He was shaking so badly that he kept having to stop to steady himself. Crowley’s reaction had been so much worse than he had imagined but as Aziraphale had put a lot of energy into not imagining it, it wasn’t all that surprising that he had managed to get it so disastrously wrong. And now there would be no final day together, no preparation, he would have to face everything alone. 

He would have to make it home somehow, perhaps he could commandeer a vehicle and leave a note for Crowley to return it, after. Would Crowley be at home waiting for him? It seemed doubtful. Aziraphale had never seen him so angry and though he had not for a moment thought Crowley would hurt him, he was now terrified of what Crowley might do to cope with what was coming. Aziraphale’s insides ached. He could not bear his last memory of Crowley being full of such devastating rage.

Arriving back in the car park, the very last thing he expected to see was the Bentley still parked exactly where Crowley had left it. There were a number of scorch marks and a few small fires burning around it but the car itself was as pristine as ever. More miraculous still, Crowley was sitting in the driver’s seat, his face buried in his hands. Aziraphale approached slowly. He thought about knocking on the passenger window before getting in but in the end he simply opened the door and slipped into the seat he had come to think of as his own. Crowley did not react in any way.

There had been a time when Aziraphale had dreaded the sight of the Bentley. After the initial ride he had refused another for two decades, the speed Crowley all too willingly coaxed from the engine making Aziraphale very grateful for all other modes of transportation, but the appearance of the car soon came to symbolise the return of Crowley and, however hard he tried, Aziraphale had not been able to hold onto his antipathy. The memory of the car engulfed in flames came to him then, Crowley stepping from it as if making a dramatic entrance was more important than the actual business of saving the world. Crowley coming to the rescue as he always did. Aziraphale could guess that the direction of his thoughts had turned to rescue once again and it was important that he made some things clear. He cleared his throat, finding it very dry. He wished he had easier words to say.

‘I couldn’t find another way. I ran out of time. I didn’t know what Hastur was doing to you, I didn’t know how long you’d be able to hold on. I should have told you straight away, as soon as you were strong enough to hear the truth. I shouldn’t have lied. I’m sorry, Crowley. I really am sorry.’

Crowley neither moved nor spoke so Aziraphale continued staring straight ahead. He had not been booted out of the car and told to walk home, that was something. The rain started in earnest now, fat drops hitting the windscreen and sliding in jagged trails down the glass. The fires around them that had not burned out themselves were slowly dying away.

‘I love you,’ said Aziraphale, pushing the words past the lump in his throat, ‘I’ll still love you, after.’

Crowley made the kind of sound someone might make if they had been hit very hard in the chest.

‘I will,’ said Aziraphale, injecting his voice with as much confidence as he was able to summon. 

Crowley lifted his head from his hands and leaned back, his eyes closed.

‘No,’ he said, simply, ‘The Fall alone…’

Aziraphale did not want to hear this, he could not afford to believe it even for one moment.

‘There’s nothing Hell can do to me that could ever stop me loving you.’

Crowley opened his eyes and looked over at him. Aziraphale had seen his expression on humans before in their very worst moments, it was the look of a person who had lost everything and was only just beginning to realise it.

‘Angel,’ Crowley said, quietly, ‘Heaven stopped you loving me for six thousand years. You have no idea what Hell can do.’

‘Then tell me,’ said Aziraphale, trying and failing to stay calm, ‘Help me understand what’s going to happen. I need you to help me find my way back to you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You can!’ Aziraphale had thought he was scared before but Crowley’s flat refusal to help was sending panic spiralling through him. ‘You did it, you came back.’

Crowley shook his head.

‘I didn’t come back, angel, I came here. There’s a difference. Kicked out of Heaven, barely surviving Hell, I saw an out and I took it. But I wasn’t trying to get back to anything or anyone. There wasn’t anyone. Until you.’

Aziraphale could feel a great crushing weight starting to bear down on him. Was this how it started? He might have simply left the car and asked God if She wouldn’t mind getting it over with if Crowley had not reached over and taken his hand.

‘Let’s go home,’ he said, ‘Maybe we’ll think of something, maybe there’s a way out of this.’

‘And if there isn’t…’ said Aziraphale, because he knew there wasn’t, Archangels didn’t mess around, ‘You will tell me what it’s like, won’t you?’

Crowley nodded.

‘I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

It was a promise and Aziraphale intended to hold him to it.

They were nearly home, no more than ten minutes away, when Crowley abruptly hit the brakes. Cars all around them began honking their horns, drivers gesticulating rudely in their direction. Acting as if he could not see or hear any of them, Crowley asked, ‘What do you want?’

‘Um…what?’

‘From the shop,’ said Crowley, indicating the patisserie with a jerk of his head, ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh. Anything. You choose.’

Crowley left the engine running, stepping out into the chaos of his own creation without a hint of discomfort. Aziraphale did what any reasonable person would do when attempting to ignore a tirade of abuse and turned on the radio.

Returning a few minutes later, Crowley dumped a white box on Aziraphale’s lap before hitting the accelerator, the traffic ahead of them parting to let them through. Aziraphale cradled the box of pastries, knowing that what Crowley was offering him was a chance to pretend that things were normal, that this was just another afternoon spent together with the future stretching out in front of them with no end. He loved Crowley so intensely in that moment that it was impossible to feel worried or scared or any of the other things he knew he should be feeling. It was enough simply to be with him, in his car, as the rest of London scrambled to get out of his way.

Aziraphale did not have much luck persuading Crowley to eat something despite there being enough cakes and pastries to keep young Adam and his friends full for days. It was a strange, sad thing, Aziraphale thought, to eat something knowing it might be the last time you ever did. The custard tart was particularly delicious. While Aziraphale ate, Crowley was indulging his usual, disconcerting habit of watching him from across the table. One of his long legs was just touching Aziraphale’s at the knee and this single point of contact was drawing far more focus than it should. No, Aziraphale thought, catching himself. There was nothing wrong with enjoying touch, or cakes, or Crowley’s unblinking stare. There was nothing wrong with any of it and it was about time he made sure that Crowley was aware that he knew that. At some point they were going to have to face the reality of what the morning would bring but there were things Aziraphale needed to do first that could not wait any longer. Dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, he nervously considered what he might say to change the mood.

‘I was wondering if we…if you might…’

Aziraphale was floundering, he was no good at this kind of thing but before he could sink into the wretchedness of his own inexperience and cowardice, Crowley shifted position in his chair. It was the slightest of movements, impossible to say exactly what he had done or why it had sent a shiver right through him but Aziraphale was suddenly breathless. It was unbearable not to be closer, not to be touching.

The instant Aziraphale went to stand, so did Crowley, their bodies pulled towards each other by a power greater than either of them. They collided, both grasping at each other like the other was about to tip off the edge of the world. Crowley breathed his name and Aziraphale kissed it out of his mouth. Crowley’s hands slid into his hair but released their grip as soon as Aziraphale pulled at his jacket. There was too much between them and it was intolerable. Aziraphale wanted skin, and fire, and more. There was nothing wrong with wanting it, needing it, and Crowley was letting him. When Aziraphale slid his hands beneath black cotton to touch his skin, he felt Crowley’s muscles tense, a low hiss sounding in his ear. 

‘Good?’ Aziraphale asked, nervous that he was doing it all wrong, a sentiment swiftly dismissed as Crowley kissed him hard in response. And these were different kisses, deeper, hungry kisses that were doing something to Aziraphale that he was not sure was right but he wanted it too badly to be able to stop. The aching inside him was getting worse with every new touch, Crowley hissing on every exhale. Aziraphale tried to hold tight to the pleasure of each new sensation, tried to ignore the way pleasure was turning not to pain but to a discomfort bordering on distress. He wanted to stay in the moment but as Crowley backed him up against the counter it was suddenly, traitorously, too much. 

‘I can’t…’

Crowley pulled away immediately, hands rising from where they had been holding onto Aziraphale’s hips. He was breathing hard, his hands held in the gesture of surrender, the universal sign that there was no threat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said and his voice was a whisper.

‘No,’ said Aziraphale, catching both of Crowley’s hands in his own, ‘I want to…’

He did and he didn’t, he wanted and he was repulsed by the wanting, and there was no time to decide. All Aziraphale knew for certain was that Crowley wanted more from him and he was going to give it to him before it was too late. Aziraphale stepped forwards, their hands still linked, and kissed Crowley in a way he hoped would make it obvious what he was prepared to do. Crowley did not exactly stop reciprocating but his touch was cooler, less confident.

‘Angel…’

Aziraphale did not want to stop, he did not want to think, he would never be able to go through with this if he was permitted time to think.

‘Angel…’ Crowley lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist. ‘Stop now.’

An awful cringing shame made Aziraphale avert his eyes but Crowley gently cupped his chin, bringing his gaze back.

‘What is it you want?’ he asked.

‘You.’

‘Be specific,’ said Crowley, gently, patiently, ‘Right now, what do you want?’

‘What do _you_ want?’ Aziraphale echoed back to him, more desperately than he had intended, ‘Whatever it is, show me, teach me.’ _Help me._

Crowley shook his head.

‘Tell me what you want me to do, angel, and I’ll do it. It’s that simple.’

Aziraphale looked at him helplessly. He had wanted Crowley to take control but he had not expected him to do it this way. Crowley could wait him out but they were running out of time and this was not how Aziraphale wanted to spend their last few hours.

‘I want…I want you to kiss me.’

The tiniest flicker of a smile gave Aziraphale the encouragement to continue.

‘I want to lie with you in bed and I want to kiss until it feels like there’s nothing between us. That’s…that’s all. Would that be okay?’ 

Crowley snapped his fingers and they were in the bedroom. The curtains were drawn and in the semi-darkness Aziraphale felt some of his anxiety fall away. He removed his jacket and waistcoat, more so that they were on an equal footing than for any consideration of his own comfort, and then they were in bed. They had not lain side by side like this since Crowley had been ill. Aziraphale shrugged off the memory of this, the time would come for them to talk through the darkness Crowley avoided putting words to but not yet, not yet.

‘I love you.’

Aziraphale was no longer afraid to say it, he would have shouted it if doing so would not have broken the mood between them.

‘Show me,’ was Crowley’s reply.

Aziraphale was all too happy to do as he was told.

Aziraphale had let go of any sense of time with a breathless sense of relief. They were still in bed, tangled together like they belonged that way. Crowley, with his head on Aziraphale’s chest, was breathing in that slow, steady way that suggested he might be falling asleep. It was exactly what Aziraphale had hoped for, exactly what he had wanted, but a sense of urgency was returning as the dim light in the room faded still further.

‘Crowley?’

‘Mmm?’

His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away.

‘Don’t go to sleep.’

‘Not sleeping,’ said Crowley, barely managing to make it sound like the truth.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. He wanted the night to go on forever but it couldn’t, and the morning would come whatever they did. Better to be prepared.

‘Can we talk now? About what’s going to happen?’

‘Now?’

‘It’s getting late.’

Crowley gave a sort of dreamy sigh. For someone who probably hadn’t wanted to simply kiss for hours, he was managing to seem extraordinarily satisfied. When he shifted so that their heads were side by side on a single pillow, Aziraphale felt a twist of regret. Maybe it would have been better simply to enjoy the time they had left. Crowley looked tired in a way Aziraphale did not really understand. Did he need sleep or simply enjoy it? There were so many things he didn’t know, so much he still wanted to discover.

‘Do you remember?’ Aziraphale asked, because the exact question he wanted to ask was a little too hard to leap right into, ‘Do you remember being an angel?’

‘You know I do.’

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, ‘But how much do you remember? Everything or just…fragments?’

‘It was a very long time ago, I’m not sure anyone could be expected to remember everything. I remember the important things, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Like your name?’

Crowley did not blink.

‘Yes, like that.’

Aziraphale wanted this piece of knowledge more than he could hope to explain. The existence of an angelic version of Crowley, complete with a different name but the same essence, was proof that he could do it too. He could become someone else and still remember.

‘Would you tell me?’

Crowley did not break eye contact but there was something deep in his eyes that hurt.

‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he said, ‘You come back to me, tell me your demonic name and I’ll tell you who I was.’

Aziraphale gave a little start. He was going to lose his name. In all his preoccupation with Crowley's, he had failed to give his own proper consideration. 

‘Angel…?’

‘You’ll have to find something else to call me.’

The shake in his voice made Crowley place a hand on his face. Aziraphale was close to letting the fear have free reign now.

‘It’s okay,’ said Crowley even though it wasn’t, could never be. 

‘I’ll remember you?’ Aziraphale asked, ‘I will remember you, won’t I?’

‘Yes, you’ll remember.’

Something about the way Crowley said it made Aziraphale certain that he would remember and wish he didn’t, but he could not imagine ever wishing to forget and this limitation in his imagination was probably sparing him from a lot of pre-emptive terror.

‘I’ll still love you.’

It was not a question but Crowley answered it anyway with a kiss. Aziraphale felt a wave of tiredness sweep over him. The questions he needed to ask were blurring. What bliss it would be to let go and allow himself to simply drift into the unknown without fear.

‘It’s okay. Just sleep.’

‘I don’t…’

But he was already being enveloped by a darkness as safe and familiar as a pair of wings folding over him. Aziraphale tried to say Crowley’s name, tried to move, but he was held in place by a gentle, unstoppable force. It felt strange. It felt good. 

‘I would never let you Fall.’

And Aziraphale’s mind went blank.

* * *

Crowley stayed where he was for a long time, one hand on Aziraphale’s face, the other on his chest. His power was holding but still he did not move. All he needed was for Aziraphale to stay asleep long enough for it to be too late to stop him. Crowley knew that delaying his departure was only making this possibility less likely, but he needed more time, he would always need more time, and at least a million more heartbeats softly drumming against his palm.

They were never meant to find each other. Whatever Aziraphale said about plans, ineffable or otherwise, Crowley’s belief remained fixed along the lines of them being damn lucky to have found each other and damn stupid to have waited so long. And no matter what Aziraphale had agreed with Michael, there was no possibility of Crowley allowing him to be damned in any other way.

Anger surged through him then, giving Crowley the energy and motivation to sit up. It was the same primal rage he had felt as Aziraphale had made his confession a few short hours earlier. Aziraphale was an idiot, an utter and absolute, stupid bastard. How could he have valued himself so lightly? How could he have even considered risking the very thing he had most feared? Crowley knew what it was to lose in a way that Aziraphale did not, knew that there was no rock bottom, only layers and layers and layers of Hell that never stopped going down. He knew the cost of surviving it, knew the fear of returning to it, and there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that if he was given his time all over again, he would shut up, step away from the edge and never risk Falling in the first place. He could have been a good angel. He could have stopped asking questions. Maybe. He could have tried harder at any rate. 

But then, of course, there would have been none of the things Crowley valued most highly. Only an eternity of blind obedience, holy righteousness and doubtless a fair bit of smiting. Aziraphale had managed, for the most part, to avoid the last one. His edges had never sharpened, his beliefs and his morality never matching what was expected of him and how he'd suffered as a result. Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, sleeping for the first time in his entire existence. It was impossible to look upon his face and keep hold of anger. Frustration, disbelief, regret and devastation were all very much still present but the anger was gone. Unable to stop himself Crowley reached out and traced Aziraphale's lips with his fingertip, wanting to commit every part of him to memory. If he was going to submit to Hell’s worst threats, he could at least do so in the knowledge that he had taken Aziraphale’s place. It had been Crowley’s worst fear for so long, the constant terror keeping him at his job long past the point he should have said no, but a new fear had supplanted even the Dark Council and their instruments of torture. A fear shaped by running into a burning bookshop and enduring the next few hours with a loss so immense that there had been nothing else. He could not do it again, he would not.

He did not kiss Aziraphale goodbye, he could not bear to, but he left a note. He had to make sure Aziraphale would not come to find him and so he had written all the things he had not been able to say, how Falling would change him beyond recognition, how there would be no way for them to find each other even if there was enough love left in him to want to. Hell was not going to let Crowley escape again. He would be a warning to every last one of them, a never ending reminder of what happened if you dared to act against their Master’s word. Shivering, Crowley placed the envelope on the empty pillow where Aziraphale would be sure to find it.

If there was ever a moment when Crowley might have abandoned his plan and left Aziraphale to his fate, that would have been it. But he did not. He left the bedroom, left the bookshop, and went to find his car.


	8. 8:03

It was so early that the streets were more or less empty, no miracles required. The Bentley slid through the morning’s almost light, fully aware of its own magnificence. Crowley was barely touching the steering wheel, he had not once hit the brake. On the surface he felt quite calm. There was a certain peace in knowing that he had absolutely no choice. He wanted to put some music on but he was in no mood for Queen. The first few lines of _Who Wants To Live Forever_ would have had him driving the Bentley full speed into the nearest wall and, considering he needed to do some negotiating before entering Hell, Crowley decided against risking it.

In the silence, memories rose unbidden, brief glimpses of the last few months replaying so vividly it was as if he was experiencing them again. 

The day he’d moved in, Aziraphale moving piles of books out of the way as he suggested the best places for Crowley’s many plants. The worried way Aziraphale kept asking if he would be bringing anything else over, didn’t he have more stuff? Didn’t he want to make more changes? Until Crowley had finally snapped and asked him what he wanted more stuff around for only for Aziraphale to reply, in the smallest of voices, ‘I just want to make sure you know I want you here.’

Or the time Aziraphale had been on the phone and his voice had suddenly gone up a little too high and he’d got all flustered and said, ‘Well, actually he’s right here. We, um, live together.’ And Crowley had heard a muffled Anathema shaped cheer down the line.

All the times Aziraphale had come to sit on the bed with him when he was feeling too dark to move, his quiet, consistent kindness smoothing the way back to the light.

Walking back after having dinner somewhere, strangely nervous in each other’s company, both of them realising that this time they did not have to say goodbye. Aziraphale taking his hand and kissing it under a streetlight, their hands linked all the way home.

Aziraphale’s wide eyed wonder at Crowley’s ability to dream.

Aziraphale’s smile. His lips, his hands, his neck, his hair, his presence, his voice, his touch, his laugh, the smell of him, the taste of him, the way he sometimes looked so full of love he was practically glowing.

Crowley pressed one hand to his stomach and focused on the road ahead. He was nearly there. Not long now.

There were no spaces to park so Crowley simply stopped the car in the middle of the road. He would never see it again anyway. He tapped the steering wheel, counting the remaining seconds of pain free existence. His wings unfolded the moment he stepped out, the threat the building gave off a final warning to turn back. Crowley ignored it, barely noticing the way the entrance of the strip club shimmered as he approached, opening for him in false welcome, recognising him as one of its own. The place stank of demonic intervention. It was deep in the fabric of the place, between the molecules holding it all together. Crowley half expected the shadows to come to life and surround him but no one appeared as he walked slowly through the foyer. It was almost seven now, only one hour remaining before the deadline. No time to lose.

The double doors opened at his touch revealing the main auditorium in all its grim glory. A cleaner looked up at him in surprise, her eyes widening at the sight of his wings. She crossed herself reflexively and Crowley felt a shiver of pain dance across his skin. Not much more a human could do to him, however, and Crowley proceeded to ignore her. As he strode into the empty room, she made a run for the door. Just as well. Collateral damage was not his style.

The silence was deeper now, making Crowley very aware of every move he made. He had assumed that he was being watched from the moment he crossed the threshold but now he felt the watcher’s eyes. With a click of his fingers he was on the stage, wings filling the space. He said nothing, he did not need to. A ripple passed across the air close to the ceiling. Crowley watched as light seemed to pull itself out of the air. A glowing circle became a white outline, descending slowly. Somewhere around three metres from the ground, the outline became the recognisable form of the Archangel Michael. There she stayed, her wings lazily holding her aloft, her silver painted lips curling into a smile.

‘Come to thank me?’

Crowley had to unclench his jaw to speak.

‘Why would I do that?’

Michael assumed an exaggerated expression of shock. She was enjoying herself far too much.

‘Really? I had no idea you would have preferred an eternity of torment. Aziraphale was of a rather different opinion.’

Crowley’s wings stretched wide, a terrible heat filling them.

‘Don’t say his name.’

A dangerous light flashed in Michael’s eyes but when she spoke her voice was still soft with playful pretence.

‘Aziraphale knew the choice he was making.’ She checked her wrist, a watch materialising into place at her glance. ‘If your intention was to attempt to save him, you’re cutting it fine.’

Crowley shrugged. Let her think he was being dramatic, he was not about to tell her how hard it had been to drag himself away.

‘Shouldn’t take you long to send me back.’

‘Return you to Hastur’s care? Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that. He didn’t take too kindly to being interrupted. Things got a bit nasty but I’d come prepared.’

Michael reached behind her and produced the very same brand of Sainsbury’s plant mister that Crowley preferred, holding it with none of the care and vigilance the contents demanded.

‘He told me all about you threatening him with this. Very shaken up, he was, once he realised that you are immune to holy water.’

She held out the mister. They were some distance apart, if she sprayed now it would probably take between three to five seconds for him to feel it. She might do it just to prove her suspicions correct. She might do it for fun. 

‘He screamed like anything. You could thank me for that at least.’

It was perverse of him but Crowley suddenly thought that Hastur deserved better than to have died at the hands of the Michael.

‘He was following your orders.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, without a trace of regret, ‘We all have orders. And sometimes they change.’

She lowered the mister, her gaze both curious and calculating.

‘You are strangely impressive in your own way. Hell has never been able to predict your actions but then, they don’t understand love down there, do they?’

She released the mister and it remained suspended beside her, a gun without need of a holster. With a flickering movement of her fingers, a figure appeared in the air between them, picked out in a thousand tiny lights. A constellation Aziraphale, not as beautiful as the real thing, but close enough for Crowley’s heart to ache.

‘Aziraphale.’ The lights danced and glittered to the tune of Michael’s voice and then dimmed as she said, ‘There’s nothing special about him at all. He barely qualifies as an angel.’

The casual cruelty of her words made Crowley very grateful that Aziraphale was not there to hear them. He had endured more than enough derision and mockery from his superiors, their relentless emotional abuse the cause of his many anxieties, and yet he had still found ways to defy them. Aziraphale had created a life of pleasure, comfort and kindness. He was gentle, and loving, and good. Michael and the others had done their best but they had not bullied the best out of him.

‘You have no idea who he is,’ said Crowley.

‘Perhaps not, but are you really telling me that you would return to Hell for him? I wonder, if you are prepared to do that, what else would you do?’

‘Anything,’ said Crowley, simply.

‘Anything,’ Michael repeated with relish as if this is what she had been waiting for, ‘Yes, I thought so.’

She lowered herself to the ground. There was a flash of light and Crowley was holding a contract, Aziraphale’s signature shining in gold at the bottom.

‘Read it,’ said Michael.

Crowley scanned the document, realised he was not taking in a single word and tried again. It was the contract Aziraphale had signed, divesting him of his wings in exchange for Crowley’s release, but there was something else, a clause that Aziraphale certainly had not mentioned.

‘He never read it,’ said Michael, climbing up the stairs to the side of the stage to join him, ‘Barely gave it a glance before he signed.’

Crowley did not acknowledge her proximity. He was having trouble coming to terms with quite how thoroughly she had manipulated the pair of them. It was right there in the ornate ethereal script. Michael had predicted everything. She had known that putting him in peril would give her Aziraphale to command, and once she had got him to agree to Fall she had everything she needed for unquestioned obedience from both of them. 

‘You want us to work for you?’

‘Well, no use me just asking, was there?’ said Michael, brightly, ‘You both needed the proper motivation and now you have it. You work for me, you do as I say, and Aziraphale keeps his wings. And if either of you hesitates, if you disobey me in any way…’

She clicked her fingers and the stars picking out Aziraphale’s beloved profile turned red and began to fall through the air, flaming as they went.

‘All you need to do is sign,’ she said, sweetly, ‘And Aziraphale is spared a one way trip to Hell.’

Crowley did not exactly hesitate, he had no intention of not signing, but he did require a moment to appreciate exactly what he was about to do. He had come here expecting to sign his life away but the recipients were meant to Hell’s agents, not the Archangel Michael holding a leash. And Aziraphale was supposed to be safely out of harm’s way. Crowley looked at Michael, so calm, so confident in her meticulous planning.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Michael, as if all he needed was a little extra persuasion, ‘God has such special plans for you.’

If there was anything more chilling she could have said, Crowley did not want to hear it.

He did not need a pen to sign, a different kind of mark was required, but before Crowley could point at the contract and allow the darkness to flow through him, the stage beneath them began to shake. Both of them pitched sideways, Crowley barely managing to stay on his feet. Michael stared at the ground and then back up at him, accusatory anger making her features wild.

‘What was that?’

Crowley, who was slightly quicker on the uptake for once, tried to grab the contract but Michael was closest, whipping it away from him and taking to the air.

‘We want the same thing!’ Crowley shouted at her as the room shook again but Michael was no longer paying him any attention. She was bracing for whatever was advancing on them and Crowley, heart sinking, tried to do the same.

The doors across the room burst open, every bit of light rushing out. When Aziraphale advanced, he blazed so impossibly bright that he could have been the sun itself come to banish the darkness once and for all.

‘Aziraphale!’

Michael sounded more wonderstruck than alarmed. Crowley, however, scrambled to think of a way to neutralise the oncoming attack. Aziraphale had barely glanced at Michael. He had not come here for her.

‘Angel, I can explain…’

He tried to move forwards but an unfamiliar and terrible power was radiating from Aziraphale, pushing him backwards, forcing Crowley back against the wall. Aziraphale walked towards him. He was holding something in his hand, a hand that shook as he held it up.

‘You left a note?’

‘A nice one!’ Crowley protested.

‘Nice?’ Aziraphale’s voice was suddenly everywhere, as loud and overwhelming as an explosion. ‘Are you seriously trying to claim that putting me to sleep so that I could wake up to a suicide note was nice?!’

He was barely recognisable, the power he normally did not trust himself to wield holding Crowley in place, but beneath his power was pain, the keening, awful pain of grief. It was this pain that Crowley spoke to now. 

‘Aziraphale, I’m still here. Listen to me.’

‘No!’

The stage beneath Crowley’s feet cracked. He almost expected demons to come crawling out to claim him. Aziraphale was still advancing and for the first time in a very long time his proximity was causing Crowley deep physical pain. Michael, who could no doubt have called an end to proceedings with a simple click of her fingers, was watching from above, fascinated.

‘The decision is made,’ said Aziraphale, his white wings blocking out everything else, ‘Accept it.’

‘No.’

‘Crowley…’

‘No.’

Crowley could feel his own power awakening again, struggling through the shock of Aziraphale using his against him.

‘What are you doing?’ Aziraphale demanded when he felt Crowley pushing back, ‘Hell shouldn’t get us both.’

‘They won’t.’

With a huge surge of effort, Crowley forced himself away from the wall and into Aziraphale’s path, ignoring everything but the need to get through to him. They began to circle each other, wings almost touching, powers almost matched. Crowley sensed Aziraphale’s conviction faltering as he realised he would need to fight and fight hard to win.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Then don’t,’ said Crowley, ‘Listen to me.’

They had drawn closer together. Aziraphale was hesitating so Crowley took his chance. 

‘Michael wants a different deal, she wants us working for her. No going to Hell for either of us.' 

Aziraphale glanced up and then back at Crowley.

‘Are you lying to me?’

It was a smart question, just as it would have been a smart lie. Crowley stepped closer still so that they were entirely cocooned by feathers. Slowly, carefully, he began to let his power slip away. If Aziraphale wanted to strike, let him do it.

‘This is the best outcome we’re going to get, angel.’

‘But…’

Crowley silenced his protest with a kiss, drawing his wings up so that they were shielded from Michael’s leering as he whispered, ‘I’ll admit this would have been a much better goodbye than a note.’

Aziraphale, who had taken hold of Crowley’s jacket in a way that could have been possessive or simply aggressive, gave him a little shake.

‘We don’t know what she wants. You should let me go.’

But he already sounded less sure. Michael’s deal was vague enough to allow them both a little hope, more than the alternative at any rate.

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Crowley…’

‘Time’s up.’

Crowley was pulled backwards as Aziraphale was ripped away from him. They both tried to resist but Michael had interceded at last and was descending to land between them, the contract in her hand. While still looking at Aziraphale, she held it out to Crowley.

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

‘Crowley, you can’t…’

Aziraphale was pleading.

‘I’m not sending your boyfriend anywhere,’ Michael snapped impatiently, ‘Not yet anyway. Crowley, sign it.’

‘What do you want us to do?’ Aziraphale asked, trying to peer around Michael and catch a glimpse of the contract itself.

‘God’s work,’ said Michael dismissively, turning away from him and facing Crowley, ‘Sign it before I change my mind.’

But Crowley did not reach for the contract. He was acutely aware of how little time there was left but he sensed, beneath all the posturing, that the balance of things was beginning to shift. Aziraphale was in imminent danger of Falling but Michael was no longer leaning on this for leverage. She wanted things finished when she should have been able to run out the clock. Crowley had precisely one card left to play. He locked eyes with Michael and she did not like what she saw. 

‘You’ve cleared this with God then?’

Michael’s lips thinned even as she smiled.

‘Of course I have.’

‘I don’t remember Her being so amenable to suggestions.’

‘I’m surprised you remember Her at all,’ snapped Michael, ‘Need I remind you that She was all too willing to listen when I was talking to Her about you.’

Crowley ignored the sting.

‘Still,’ he said, ‘Timings a bit odd. Maybe we should just let things play out, see what She has to say.’

Michael surveyed him for a moment as if trying to decide whether he was really that smart, or that stupid.

‘Must you always make things difficult?’

'Bit of a trademark, to be honest,' said Crowley, 'Hastur would have agreed.' 

Behind Michael, Aziraphale looked as if he was readying himself for something but Michael was no longer prepared to indulge either of them any further. Without so much as acknowledging any potential risk posed by Aziraphale, she pulled the plant mister out of the thin air.

Aziraphale frowned at it but Crowley saw the exact moment he put two and two together.

‘Is that…holy water?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, her eyes never leaving Crowley’s face. Most of his effort was now going into assuming an indifferent expression, effort that was entirely wasted as Aziraphale choked out the most unconvincing laugh any of them had ever heard.

‘You can’t hurt him with that. Hell’s already tried.’

‘I know,’ said Michael, coolly, ‘I was there.’

She tilted her head and Crowley could tell she was imagining exactly what would happen if she misted the air very lightly. He tried very hard not to but as her finger moved to squeeze the trigger, he winced and Michael’s eyes lit up like Christmas.

‘You two. Incompetent for the most part, beneath notice on most occasions, but given the right motivation, I do believe you would make the most excellent weapons. Now, Aziraphale, I want you to look at Crowley. I want you to imagine exactly what will happen if I spray this in his direction. Believe me, I would have absolutely no compunction over melting him to nothing. And Crowley, you need to look at Aziraphale and imagine him burning in the fires of Hell. Really picture it, I know you can. Make your choice, both of you. Make it now.’

Crowley looked at Aziraphale over Michael’s shoulder. All trace of the ferocity that he had flown in with had gone, leaving him looking very pale and very frightened. He had not obeyed Michael, he was not looking at Crowley. He could not look anywhere but at the mister in her hand.

‘Sign it,’ said Michael, once more, quietly. She did not need to overemphasise the threat.

Crowley stretched out a hand slowly, the need for no sudden moves very apparent. Outplayed, he had no other options. Aziraphale’s lips parted, his silent plea hitting the air and setting it alight. At least that was how Crowley interpreted the sudden illumination that dropped down into the room. All three of them turned to stare at the column of blue-white light. The instant it touched the ground, several things happened at once. Michael dropped to one knee, Crowley felt an intense pain slice right through him and Aziraphale hurried towards him, spreading his wings as wide as they would go. He made himself a shield and without the light directly on him, Crowley felt the pain recede.

‘Your Grace,’ said Michael, addressing the light which Crowley could still see shining through Aziraphale’s feathers.

Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s hand, wanting to pull him away but Aziraphale stood firm. He had not so much as inclined his head while Michael had not risen from her position of deference.

‘Archangel Michael,’ spoke an ancient voice, rich with the knowledge of worlds, ‘What transpires here?’

It was not Her voice but it was the closest Crowley had been for millennia.

‘This business need not concern you, Lord,’ said Michael, ‘It is of no importance.’

‘And yet,’ the voice spoke, ‘You have appointed God as executioner of an angel. On whose authority do you act?’

‘My own, Lord. It was...I am acting in the best interest of Heaven. I have orders to bring the principality Aziraphale back under Her influence by any means necessary.’

Aziraphale tensed at this but did not seek to interrupt. Crowley placed his free hand to the space between Aziraphale’s wings and felt him lean back into his touch ever so slightly.

‘And what of the other?’

Crowley felt the light grow brighter, seeking him out. Aziraphale squeezed his hand and Crowley tried to push the fear back down to a place where he could see past it.

‘Some adversaries have their uses,’ said Michael.

‘Yet you seek to destroy he who God saw fit to spare.’

‘No, I...’ Michael began, ‘Perhaps my methods are unorthodox but I can assure you, I seek only to manifest God’s will.’

There was a long silence in which each of them was left to wonder what God’s will might be. The light seemed to be getting brighter, Crowley’s skin prickling with acute sensitivity. He was beginning to lose his fight with panic. It had to be getting very close to the time specified on Michael’s infernal contract and if he’d got it wrong then Aziraphale was minutes away from Falling. Crowley held onto Aziraphale’s hand tighter still and with the other grasped the back of his beautiful coat.

‘You’re not taking him,’ he thought as clearly and defiantly as he could, ‘You’re not, he’s _mine_.’

‘Silence!’

The command echoed around the room and though no one had been speaking, all three of them felt their minds still, crystallising on their very last thought.

‘Michael, your duty to God is commendable.’

Crowley closed his eyes. He was not letting go. Not even if it meant having to Fall all over again.

‘But it is not within your power to direct God’s will.’

‘I think you might change your mind if…’

‘Save your explanations for the Almighty, Michael. Your presence is required, immediately.’

Crowley felt Michael resist for a fraction of a second and then she was gone.

‘Aziraphale…’

Aziraphale’s grip on Crowley’s hand turned crushing.

‘Yes?’

‘You are an angel.’

‘Yes..?’

‘You sound unsure.’

‘I…’

‘Do you doubt God, Aziraphale?’

‘No, I…of course not…I…’

‘Do not be so careless with that which is most precious.’

‘I…’

‘And Aziraphale, God hears all prayers. You need not scream them.’

The light extinguished itself before Aziraphale could say another word and they were left, abruptly, alone. Both of them stayed perfectly still. On the floor at their feet the discarded contract caught alight and burned to ash.

Crowley could feel Aziraphale trembling and he was pretty sure he was too. As the energy that had got him to this point dissipated, he slumped forwards until he was pressed against Aziraphale’s back, his arms around his waist. He wanted to lie there forever, eyes closed, and never be separated from Aziraphale ever again. 

‘We should go.’

Crowley held on tighter. His mind felt stretched and blurry. He did not want to move or speak or think or breathe.

‘Crowley, let’s go home.’

* * *

Crowley seemed to have been affected by the Metatron’s presence far more deeply than Aziraphale and had not moved or spoken since getting in the passenger seat of the Bentley by mistake. This had left Aziraphale with the unnerving job of getting them home. He thought he was doing a passable job of directing the car if not actually driving the way Crowley did but an upcoming roundabout threw him completely. The car had been stalled for at least a minute as Aziraphale wondered how on Earth he was supposed to know when to launch them into the never-ending stream of vehicles when the Bentley lurched forwards seemingly of its own accord. Aziraphale yelped in anticipation of a collision but somehow the car navigated the impassable with no issues at all and even succeeded in identifying the correct turning. Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley, wanting confirmation that he was paying attention to where they were going, but in addition to looking grey faced and ill, Crowley had his eyes closed. Aziraphale turned back to the road, feeling that at least one of them should remain vigilant. In any case, it was clearly the wrong moment to celebrate.

As they neared the bookshop, Aziraphale started to grow anxious again. There was never anywhere to park and the one way system had surely been demonically influenced however much Crowley denied it.

‘Crowley, would you mind doing this bit? I don’t want to damage the car.’

‘What?’ Crowley opened his eyes, looking around as if he had not realised they were even moving. ‘Oh, right.’

He shot a confused look over at the steering wheel in front of Aziraphale and then took charge. Aziraphale was almost convinced he heard the car give a sigh of relief. Moments later and the Bentley was wedged neatly into the only available space outside the shop.

‘You make it look so easy.’

‘It is,’ said Crowley, leaning back in his seat, the effort of parking the car having taken the little he had left to give. He looked like he was trying not to be sick.

Around them Soho was getting ready for a perfectly ordinary morning. One of the neighbours who owned the shop a few doors down gave Aziraphale a cheery wave which he returned a trifle weakly.

‘Crowley, are you…?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Crowley, sounding the opposite, ‘Let’s go inside.’

Inside the shop, Aziraphale immediately launched into the comforting routine of making tea. They were almost out of Earl Grey, a fact he remarked upon to Crowley who had slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. It was going to take more than strong tea to revive him. Perhaps some toast would help. There were eggs too. He could make crepes or…

‘Stop,’ said Crowley in response to Aziraphale’s list of breakfast foods, ‘Aziraphale, just stop.’

Aziraphale felt a shudder pass through him but he did not stop. If he could just focus on breakfast, if he could concentrate on the bread and the jam and pouring just the right amount of milk into the tea, everything else would start to make sense. He opened the fridge to retrieve the butter dish and was just turning to take it over to the table when it slipped from his fingers. It seemed to hit the hard floor in slow motion, the sound of it smashing making Aziraphale’s bones ache as pieces of white china scattered in every direction.

‘Oh, that was foolish.’

He made to grab a nearby cloth but this fell to the floor too, fluttering away from his fingers the moment he touched it. Aziraphale stared at his hands and was surprised to find them shaking.

‘Oh.’

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale heard the familiar endearment and the truth of it dawned on him anew. He was an angel, still. He was not going to Fall, his nightmare was not coming true. And Crowley was with him. They were together. It hadn’t ended, this wonderful, miraculous thing they had.

‘Crowley…’

Aziraphale barely breathed his name but Crowley’s chair was already scraping the floor. Aziraphale met him halfway, china crunching underfoot but neither of them paying it any mind, and then they were holding each other the way they always should have been, the way Aziraphale’s arms had been aching for longer than he cared to remember.

‘Angel…’

‘I know.’

Aziraphale pressed his face into Crowley’s neck, breathing him in.

‘If you ever do anything like that ever again…’

‘I know.’

Crowley was holding him so tightly, Aziraphale would not have been at all surprised to open his eyes and find himself wrapped in the coils of a snake. He could hear the catch in Crowley’s breathing as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his collarbone hoping it would calm him. Emboldened by Crowley’s soft gasp of surprise, he did it again. He wanted to lay a kiss over every bit of anger, every bit of fear and every bit of pain, and then he wanted to keep going.

‘Angel…’

Aziraphale was trailing kisses up his neck.

‘Angel,’ Crowley tried again, ‘Not to ruin the moment but I think I need to…’

His legs gave way beneath him, Aziraphale catching him before he could fall. An image of smashed china intermingled with black feathers filled his mind but Crowley was already trying to stand unaided, pushing against him slightly, saying he was fine.

‘You’re not,’ said Aziraphale, steering him forcefully over to the sofa. Crowley sank onto it, barely managing to suppress a groan.

‘S’ok,’ he said in response to Aziraphale’s hovering, ‘Bit too much holiness, that’s all. Got to wait for it to leave my system.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Aziraphale thought of Michael, the holy water, the Metatron. He thought of flames and torture and burning wings. He reached for the blanket on the back of the sofa, knowing that what he would need more than anything if he was in pain was comfort. Tucking it around Crowley, he could not stop himself from kissing his forehead.

‘You shouldn’t have gone there,’ he whispered. Crowley opened his eyes a fraction and scowled.

‘Let’s save the argument for later, shall we?’

Aziraphale nodded and began to move away when Crowley made a little nervous movement.

‘Don’t go.’

The vulnerability in those two little words made Aziraphale’s heart tremble. He sat down at once, as close to Crowley as he could, ready to prop him up if needs be. Almost immediately Crowley laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale reached for his hand under the blanket, his skin was a little too cool but he would be okay. He would make sure of it.

‘You can lie down if you want to.' 

‘This is good,’ said Crowley, sounding shattered enough to fall asleep standing up if necessary.

For a long time they remained exactly as they were, Aziraphale afraid to move lest he disturb him but glad that he could do something, even if it was simply be the safe place Crowley needed.

Thoughts came and went like clouds across a blue sky. Every now and then Aziraphale would be tempted to say something but he opted for silence each time, feeling that no interruption was more important than Crowley’s need for rest. As he ran over all that had happened in the last few hours, however, a thought occurred to him which he simply could not keep to himself.

‘She chose us.’

‘Who?’

Crowley sounded like he had roused himself from the brink of sleep to speak.

‘God,’ said Aziraphale, ‘She chose us over Michael.’

Purest joy, warm as sunlight, was filling him. He was amazed Crowley could not feel it.

‘You know what this means? For us, I mean. We have Her blessing. Why else would I still be here?’

Beside him, Crowley stiffened.

‘We don’t need anyone’s blessing. And I really don’t think She’s dishing it out.’

‘But…don’t you see?’ said Aziraphale, ignoring the warning signs, ‘She knows and it’s okay. When Michael…when I thought she might use the holy water on you, all I could think to do was pray. I prayed that She would save you and She did!’

Crowley did not say anything for a long time and Aziraphale began to feel regret curling like smoke through his revelation. He should not have said anything. Crowley would never believe that God was forgiving, and why should he? He was still a demon, still Fallen, still damned. Aziraphale did not yet know how deep that wound went but he did know that he had just pressed a painful bruise very hard.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…’

‘I did the same thing.’

‘What?’

‘When I was with Hastur. I knew he wanted you to find me so he could torture you too, so I asked Her for help.’

Aziraphale did not know what to say, it was equally astonishing for him to think of Crowley prioritising him while he was in such pain as it was to hear Crowley admit that he spoke to God.

‘It wasn’t the first time,’ Crowley continued, ‘I did the same thing at the airbase, in Tadfield. When you told me to do something or you’d never speak to me again, I didn’t know what to do. I knew I wasn’t strong enough for what was coming so I threw it up to God.’

They had talked about that day many times but Crowley had never told him this before, never even hinted at divine intervention but it made sense. Crowley had bought them time, time to talk to Adam and give him the encouragement to believe in his powers. It shouldn’t have been possible but he did it.

‘You pray?’

‘I guess you could call it that. I do sometimes. I pray for you.’

Aziraphale felt as if his heart was expanding in his chest. Of course Crowley had never stopped having faith, if he had it would hurt less, and he would not be Crowley. He had never stopped talking to God and She had never stopped listening. And why would She? He was perfect. Every single moment of his existence had been a gift to the universe. Not to mention that he was the best, most enduring blessing of Aziraphale’s life. Aziraphale wanted to paint the sky with this knowledge but beautiful as these truths were they suddenly seemed too big, too startling for a quiet, healing moment such as this.

‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘Hmm…’

Crowley sounded like he might be regretting it already. Aziraphale let his cheek brush against his hair, feeling so full of emotions that he did not know how to contain them.

‘I love you,’ he whispered, so quietly, hardly louder than a thought, but Crowley heard all the same.

‘Love you too, angel,’ he said, his words slurring slightly, ‘So no more sacrificing yourself for me, okay?’

‘Of course not,’ said Aziraphale, ‘Next time I’ll just let Hell take you.’

It was intended as a joke but the tone was all wrong, the words hitting the air too hard as Aziraphale felt tears threatening to betray him. Crowley sighed, his exhale almost a hiss.

‘That’s fine as a plan B but how about we do a better job of staying here together?’

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, blinking his tears away, ‘I like it here.’ He squeezed Crowley’s hand. ‘With you.’

Crowley settled himself more comfortably, his head growing heavier on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He could not be certain but Aziraphale strongly suspected, despite everything, that Crowley was smiling softly as he drifted off to sleep.

After waiting long enough to be reasonably confident that Crowley would stay asleep if he was careful, Aziraphale transferred them both upstairs to bed. Crowley’s eyelids flickered as Aziraphale slid in beside him but they did not open. When Aziraphale moved closer, Crowley seemed to reach for him instinctively as if even in his dreams he wanted to be as close to him as possible.

‘I’m right here,’ Aziraphale murmured, not wanting to wake him, only seeking to reassure, ‘I’m not leaving you. Not ever.’

Crowley settled against him and Aziraphale felt him relax once more. It was a marvellous thing, to be the person Crowley wanted to be this close to, and to have the courage to let him at long last. Maybe it would always be like this, Aziraphale thought, as Crowley’s breath warmed his chest. Moments of quiet comfort and overwhelming love ever colliding with the reality of a universe that was not ready to let them be.

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley and held him as tight as he dared. How did humans bear it? The knowledge that their beloveds would be taken from them, that it was a certainty no amount of money, power or love could prevent. Aziraphale wanted guarantees. He wanted always – always safe, always together, always in love – but if he had to let go of one always to give the others the best chance, he knew beyond any doubt which one it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your beautiful comments and kindness. Thank you for making sharing this such a joy and for reminding me that fandom can be a wonderful place to be. 
> 
> There is now a sequel [All That Goes Unsaid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20285632/chapters/48088249). I'm not linking them as a series as they are quite different thematically but it's there if you're interested :). 
> 
> I'm @marbledwings on Tumblr if anyone wants to find me.


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